


A Model Guardian

by Fuuma_san



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is his Bodyguard, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Background Newt/Anathema, Bodyguard, Crowley is a model, Domestic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Found Family, Gender Affirming, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Slow Burn, Stalking, Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), they're switches‚ bitches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 132,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuuma_san/pseuds/Fuuma_san
Summary: Crowley is a self-sufficient model on the verge of stardom. They clawed their way up all by themselves and the very last thing they want is some cream puff bodyguard their agency hired following them around constantly. Pretending to be their boyfriend at work so they don't get a reputation as a Diva. Watching over them. Caring for them.But then it turns out "Fell" was not even his real name. Was it all fake? Would someone like him ever want someone like them?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 600
Kudos: 471





	1. It starts, as it shall end, in a garden.

**Author's Note:**

> I've rated this E for Eventually.
> 
> Ah yes, Bodyguards. The inherent eroticism of loyalty. The two-way power dynamics! Delicious.
> 
> This started because I was talking to my qpp about AU ways that Crowley could still be flash bastard without also being rich, and I loved the Model idea so I ran with it.

When Aziraphale had been woken up early that morning and told to “Rise an’ shine, ya great pansy, we got a poncy new job today I think you’re just the sort for,” by his boss, he’d been nervous and flustered, at first. This was his highest paying job ever, which he  _ really  _ needed, but he’d never worked for a VIP before and he could only do so much in terms of polishing, in his current… circumstance. When he'd put the address in his GPS he hadn’t given the location much thought but when he arrived he realized that where he’d ended up was one street over from the murder mile in Hackney, London. He double-checked the address he’d been texted but it was correct. It was a sad, dingy brown brick building, with black spots of mold ringing all the “white” parts around the windows. Even the doors were a peeling yellow that looked more like someone had scraped it out of the gutters at some point than a paint color a person would voluntarily choose. 

Why he was told to wear his nicest looking suit to escort a VIP from  _ here _ , of all places, was a mystery, but Aziraphale was a professional, and it wasn’t a guard’s place to question orders from above, even if the Sergeant wasn’t the picture of corporate etiquette himself. The owner of a business wasn’t the face of it, thankfully, every day guards like him were, so it was up to him to keep this person safe and happy if he wanted this job to work out. Which he very much did— the pay was a flat day rate nearly twice what he usually earned. He trudged up the stairs to his destination on the fourth floor, at the very end of the hallway, # 404, and gave a polite rap with the knocker. 

Several clicks and snicks answered as the door was unlocked then the door cracked, a chain still holding it mostly closed. One bright gold eye peered out, taking Aziraphale’s breath away. It was unearthly, and hauntingly beautiful. 

“What?” said the person behind the door.

“Ah, yes, right, sorry.” Aziraphale realized he’d just been silently staring and gathered himself, smoothing his expression. “I’m your escort. I was sent by the agency.” 

The eye looked him up and down. “Don’t need a prostitute. Go away.” And slammed the door closed. 

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. He’d… He’d… He wasn’t a prostitute! Why would the person think that? He thought back, realized his phrasing error and sighed. He scrubbed his hands across his face and straightened up again before knocking once more. 

The door cracked once more, “You’re a very persistent whore, aren’t you?”

It took quite a bit of effort on Aziraphale’s part to maintain his smile. He focused on the money he desperately needed. “I apologize that I was unclear. I’m not a prostitute. I am a bodyguard. I have been hired by your employers to guard you throughout your work today and make sure you arrive at all your destinations safely.”

The eye gave him another once over, then grunted and closed the door. The chain rattled as it was removed and the door opened fully. 

Standing there was the most beautiful person Aziraphale had ever seen. They were young, like him, and about the same height, but there their similarities ended. Their eyes were even more stunning when seen on their face, framed by long lashes. They had high cheekbones, peppered with freckles on otherwise flawless skin, and their hair was long, hanging in fiery waves. As Aziraphale’s eyes traced down he noticed there were bright purple bruises on their neck and shoulders, mostly obscured by their hair and black tee but still visible. Concerned, he looked around for threats, but it was just a half-empty studio flat. 

“Come in, but don’t touch anything,” they said, and fished out a phone from their pocket. They closed the door behind Aziraphale then made a call, turning away, which gave Aziraphale a view of their backside in their ridiculously tight black trousers. He had to avert his gaze as well, focusing instead on the bare concrete wall. It was a very lovely bottom, and it would be uncouth of him to look more at it, regardless of how tempting it was to do so. 

“Tracy, did you hire me a bodyguard?” they said without any preamble. A pause, then they turned and gave Aziraphale a once over, raising a sleek, perfect eyebrow as they said, “No, he’ll blend in, that’s not my issue. I’m not paying for this… Well, how am I supposed to explain it? … No! No! I’m not pretending he’s my boyfriend! … Because I don’t want to!” 

They started pacing, but the room was only so big so it was three steps one way, turn, three steps the other. “Look, I know it’s a big— … I know! … I don’t care about the optics— … No, Tracy, I promise I’m dedicated to this. I want this contract more than you do, I promise you that…” they sighed and stopped pacing, rubbing their temple. “You're right, I know that, I’m just not happy about it, but really? Doesn’t this seem a bit much? It was just a fluke, I’ll be fine without a babysitter… Fine, fine! But just until all the paperwork is signed… Alright… Bye then.”

They stopped pacing and turned back to Aziraphale. “Looks like you’ll be my bodyguard after all. Madame Tracy says you’re to spend the day with me for all my outings. Did you get my itinerary for work?” 

“I’m afraid not yet. Only your pick-up location and that you would need to be escorted until evening. I’m to drive you between any locations you want to go.”

“Fine. I need to finish getting ready. Go wait in your car or whatever.”

“I’m afraid that would be… inadequate guardianship on my part. But I’ll wait in the hall, if you find that acceptable?”

“Whatever,” they said and shooed them out, shutting the door rather hard behind him. He stationed himself to the side of the door and waited, something he was exceedingly used to. Waiting was the vast majority of his job. He tried to focus on something other than those eyes, so striking in the early morning light. They were so unique, with brown streaks around the pupil and veins of amber and gold through the center of the iris, which just made them appear to be glowing in the sunlight. It wouldn’t do, however, to be ogling, even in his mind’s eye, so he tried his hardest to banish those thoughts. He was a professional. Instead he focused on the book he was reading, trying to remember what happened before he dozed off last night. After a while, the person emerged and they looked even more gorgeous, if that was at all possible. It took all of Aziraphale’s self-control not to stare at her. Them? Her? He wasn’t sure, and endeavored not to use pronouns out loud until he knew what was correct. 

The bruises on their neck seemed to have disappeared and unfortunately their gorgeous eyes were hidden by some fancy, designer sunglasses, but, oh, the rest of them was a sight to see. They had changed into a nearly form fitting outfit, modern and sharp. The top was a black suit jacket that hugged their slim figure in matte blacks, similar to a tuxedo jacket. The plunging neckline revealed dappled skin, hinting that there was nothing underneath, and from the waist down the fabric of the top changed to a transparent lace that dripped into a delicate train, veiling their otherwise naked midsection in soft shadow. They’d put on humongous spike heels, so even though they were a similar height before, now they towered over Aziraphale. 

They locked up, slung their bulky, gold-and-leather handbag over their shoulder and started walking, seemingly sure that Aziraphale would follow. They weren’t wrong, he did, his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead of them and definitely not dipping down to glance at the way those heels made their calves taught, showing off the curve of their ankles and the delicate arch of their foot. It was only that their hips were incredibly distracting, swaying from side to side like that, and it set flutters off inside him. Aziraphale hustled, practically jogging, in order to close the distance between them, so that he could only hear the rhythm of their footfalls, clearing his mind with a little shake. Wouldn’t do to be distracted. He was here to be on the lookout for threats and dangers, and that’s where he focused his energy. 

When they exited into the bright sunlight they paused, needing a moment to adjust to the light, and Aziraphale took this as an opportunity to take the lead, bringing them to where his company car waited, a black hackney carriage that wasn’t a taxicab any more. Aziraphale opened the passenger’s side door and the person just looked at him. 

“Up front? You’re having me sit in the front of a taxi?” they said, flatly. 

“I’m afraid the back is unavailable. And it’s not a taxi per se, it’s just so that we blend in. Discretion is wise in this line of work.”

They sighed and moved to the door, smoothing the lace flat over their bottom as they sat, lifting one gracefully long leg in at a time. Aziraphale gently closed their door and walked around to sit on the driver’s side. 

“Now, where to?” They flashed their phone, where an address was written, and he plugged it into his phone’s navigation. The cab seemed quite a bit warmer than it had before it had such a beautiful person in it. Sitting this close he could even smell their perfume, a heady mix of sweet flowers and spices. He drove very carefully, following every rule and staying below the speed limit, which seemed to annoy his charge, who nevertheless stayed silent but for a few growls and tsks until he found a park near their destination and pulled into it.

“Alright, listen up," his client said before Aziraphale could exit the cab. "I’m not happy about you being here, as I’m sure you’ve realized, but I’ve accepted it for now, and I won’t try to shake you, I promise. Nothing against you, you seem like a lovely person and all. So.  _ Your _ job is to maintain a low profile. I don’t need any more trouble and I don’t need my employers thinking I’m high maintenance, you got it? Now, I’m about to go into an office where you’re not to speak unless you must, and then we’ll be getting on a bus and moving to our location for a photoshoot. I’m sure someone will try to gossip with you but don’t. Just… stay out of the way and please don’t start any more rumors. I’m on the verge of something big and anything that makes me look complicated to them jeopardizes that.”

“Absolutely. I am a consummate professional, I assure you, and I shall guard your reputation as strenuously as I guard your person,” Aziraphale put on his most serious face, and was surprised when it was met with a slow smile, blossoming crooked.

“You’re not even aware that you keep doing it, are you?” they said under their breath. Had they not been in such close quarters he’d have missed it. They shook their head and chuckled, mumbling as they got out of the car, “First an escort, now we're consummating." Aziraphale rushed to join them on the sidewalk as they walked off again.

“May I ask, how should I refer to you?” asked Aziraphale.

“Just call me Crowley, nothing else, no matter what names anyone else uses. This industry loves to give out cutesy nicknames but I hate them. If anyone asks, tell them you’re my friend and you’re just here to see what a shoot is like. Don’t chit-chat if you can at all help it but please don’t be rude either.”

“Of course, of course. I will do my utmost to present a favorable image for you.” Aziraphale hesitated, but decided it was best to just ask now. “Forgive me for asking, but I thought it best to check. Um. What pronouns should I be using for you?”

Crowley stopped dead in their tracks, and slowly turned to face Aziraphale, so clearly stunned it was obvious even with the sunglasses, their manicured brows practically to their hairline. 

Aziraphale held his hands up and rushed to add, “I’m terribly sorry. I’ve offended you.”

“No.” There was another long pause, and Aziraphale's cheeks heated as he felt Crowley's eyes roving over him, clearly being scrutinized and reevaluated. When Crowley spoke again their voice was like butterscotch, it’s velvety timbre sending chills through him. “I go by he/him or they/them in private, no large preference. However, in public, use they/them if you must, but stick to whatever other people around me are using, which is nearly always going to be she/her. Don’t ever use something different than anyone else in a conversation, I don’t need people to think you’re correcting them. Understand?” They’d worked themselves back up to nervous again, and Aziraphale mourned the gleaned glimpse of their softness. 

"Oh yes, very. Thank you for explaining that to me." They must not be out about their gender, which was a very hard but necessary way to live sometimes. Aziraphale resolved to be impeccable in order to not out them by accident. He’d had his own history of being outed and he would never wish any of what he’d gone through on someone else. Was there some way to let them know he understood, intimately, the stakes? Perhaps the bowtie was enough.

Crowley waved off his gratitude and resumed walking. They kept a rather brisk pace for someone whose hips swayed and dipped like that. Aziraphale followed a few steps behind, not wanting to crowd his client, who was clearly not particularly happy about him, but not too far back, where the view would be excessively distracting. He was used to people being unhappy about his presence in this line of work, but it wasn't usually the people he was tasked with protecting.

They arrived at their destination, a chrome and glass office full of oversized abstract art and chandeliers, where a whole crew of people were busy, moving about boxes and equipment. 

"My little Birdy! You're early, Jay," a tall man with grey-blonde hair sauntered over, his arms open wide. He was very traditionally handsome, with a chiseled chin, sharp cheekbones and grey, deep-set eyes. He wore an oversized yellow top and jeans that somehow all managed to look expensive. 

Crowley smiled and stepped into the embrace, giving air kisses above each cheek. “Hello, Lucky! I took a different route today and it went faster than expected. Looking forward to working with you today.”

“I’m sure you are, darling, this one looks like it’ll be a fun one. Perfume ad campaigns always are though, you know. They’re so conceptual! And you’ll be happy to know I requested you specifically for it. I wanted those golden eyes of yours,  _ especial _ .”

“I am happy —always— to be thought of. Thank you.”

Lucky shrugged off the gratitude. “I’ll do introductions and go over the direction once we’re on site. I’m in the middle of it right now, you understand, so you’ll have to tell me who your shadow is later. Make yourself useful or wait in the van, shouldn’t be more than an hour.” 

“Yes, sir,” Crowley said with a smile, and they parted, both walking back the way they came, though Lucky stopped to pick up some paperwork and frown at it. Aziraphale followed silently, his work smile glued to his face. Crowley lingered in the hallway, leaning gracefully against the wall inspecting the fingernails on their elegant, long fingers, until one of the people carrying boxes exited. They followed them out the back door to a loading bay, where two white vans waited. Crowley made a beeline for the one that wasn’t half full of equipment and climbed in the back, giving Aziraphale a moment where their perfect bottom was waving about at nearly eye-level. Aziraphale felt his face heating and turned away as they finished climbing in and settled themselves. He lingered outside, taking up a post. 

He heard a growl, and turned to see Crowley frowning at him from the shadows of the van. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” said Aziraphale.

“Stand around, all… like a bodyguard.”

“But I am a bodyguard?”

“Well be less obvious about it." Crowley snapped. "You’re supposed to be my friend, remember? Act casual.”

“Yes, right. My apologies.” So Aziraphale perched on the edge of the floor of the van, where the doors were left open. 

There was a long pause, broken by Crowley, who curtly asked, “What should I call you?”

“Mr. Fell. I’m called A. Z. Fell.” 

“I’m not calling someone who's supposed to be a friend ‘Mr. Fell’ so how about you tell me what the ‘A’ stands for?”

Aziraphale blushed. He so hated his work alias. It was embarrassing. “Aleister.”

Crowley cringed and sucked their teeth. “...Oof.”

“I know, it’s terrible. And usually people are fine with just Mr. Fell in a professional context. You have my sincerest apologies.” 

“So how did we meet, Fell? I’ll probably have to fend off a few curious questions once we get going. You have no idea how much gossiping goes on in hair and makeup.”

“I’m your neighbor?” 

“Can you cook?”

“Not as well as I'd like, but yes. I bake when I have the opportunity, and I'm a much better baker.” 

“That’ll work. You live on my floor and we met that way. One day you offered your neighbors some food you baked and I was the only one who took any, so you just kept bringing some by. We started going out for tea every once in a while after. We’ve known each other for about a year. Sound good?” 

“Oh, yes. Very plausible. What kind of baked things do you like?”

“Partial to chocolate. Don’t like very sweet things. Think biscotti and coffee is a good breakfast.”

That wasn’t surprising to him in the least. “You seem the type to brood with a glass of red wine and a dark chocolate torte.”

“Never done that, but it suits my image. Feel free to use that.” 

“That’s too bad. A nice Merlot can really complement the bitter notes in cocoa and a dry wine with the moist torte is a pleasant contrast.” 

“Bit of a foodie, then, are we?” they said and their warm smile reappeared, tugging their naturally pouty pink lips into a softer, more mellow arrangement. 

Aziraphale blushed and smoothed down the front of his waistcoat, suddenly overly conscious of his thick middle. “I enjoy the finer things when I can.”

“That’s good then. Certainly should help you blend in with this lot.”

They sat together in a comfortable quiet, broken when one of the people loading things into the other van staggered. His travel cases tipped precariously and he started chanting, “Oh no oh no” as he tried to regain his balance. Aziraphale leapt up and rushed over, helping to steady the load. 

“Oh, these are quite heavy, aren’t they? Please, allow me,” said Aziraphale, and took the bulk of what the other man was carrying, leaving him to just roll the one with wheels. “After you.”

“Thanks, I forget how heavy make-up is sometimes,” said the man, who managed to be both mousy and tall, his thick black glasses and rumpled clothes making him look like the least stylish person there. 

“No problem, let me just load these up for you. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

“No, that’s the last of my things. It’s only the lighting left and they don’t let me touch their equipment.” He put his own case in the van beside where Aziraphale had set his other cases. “Thanks again.”

“My pleasure.”

The man took a seat in the row in front of Crowley, who had their head leaning against the window. A very thin young woman with blonde hair arrived and sat beside Crowley. They struck up a conversation, apparently acquaintances. Soon other people were arriving, taking their seats, and the man Crowley had called Lucky sat up front in the passenger’s seat. Aziraphale finally took the last open seat beside the mousy man when it looked like they were preparing to go, and then they were off. 

The drive was long— out of London and its suburbs. Over an hour later they rolled up a gravel drive to a very large and elaborate estate with sprawling manicured gardens. Lucky clapped, drawing everyone’s attention as they piled out. They gathered round him, though Aziraphale dawdled near the van. A few people wearing t-shirts and jeans ignored him and went to unload the cargo van. 

“Alright, everyone. Most of you know one another from previous jobs, but I’m going to go round and introduce each of you, as well as explain our product, concept and agenda,” said Lucky in a booming voice, like he was on stage. 

“First, call me Lucky, I’m the Art Director of this shoot. Our product is a fragrance called Duality, which hair and makeup will have samples of, so everyone give that a whiff. Speaking of, hair and makeup is being done today by Newton Pulsifer— raise your hand, please, Newton.” The mousy man from before raised his hand. “Thank you. Lighting, props, and costumes are being overseen by Ms. Abigail Lewistar and her assistants, who are already hard at work,” an elderly lady with a sharp black bob waved, and Lucky continued, “Today’s talent are the lovely Misses Sophie Spencer… Isabella Belisi… and Antoinette J. Crowley.” He paused for each to smile and wave, Isabella being the lady who had previously been chatting with Crowley and Sophie the dark-haired, dusky beauty standing with them. “And our photographer for today is the lovely and extraordinarily talented Harry Winslow.”

The elderly man with the beard waved, “Lovely day to all, and good to work with you.”

“Thank you Harry, the honor is ours, though, you are a miracle worker,” said Lucky. “Now the theme of the shoot is obviously Duality, like the product, so we will be doing a day to night sort of theme, with the day look being ethereal, angelic businesswomen, juxtaposing the night looks as opulent demon temptresses. Post production will be merging the looks into one frame, so we’re doing six locations in the garden, one in each look, before moving to the second look nearer dusk. Sorry, my Jay Birdie, you’ve drawn the short straw and will be going both first and last. Ok, everyone, let’s get this show going!”

And everyone broke, bustling around, clearly knowing what to do, only going to Lucky for direction on where to do it. Crowley joined Newton, and they moved to the other van, so Aziraphale accompanied them and ended up carrying nearly all of the cases Newton needed, which earned him a few unreadable looks and raised eyebrows from Crowley. Aziraphale resolved to find them water, as they’d licked their lips three times on the walk over. 

They were directed by Lucky to a shady part of the lot, where Newton — “Please, just Newt.” — struggled to set up a tent, so Aziraphale took that over and had it done quickly and with profuse appreciation from Newt, who unpacked and set up a table and travel cases chock full of make-up and supplies. Crowley fished out a chair and set it in the center of the tent, where they waited. 

“Nice working with you again, Newt. You’re one of the best, and certainly my favorite make-up artist,” said Crowley.

“Likewise Crowley, always nice to see you. I think you’ll like the look this time. Lucky had some specific ideas for you, but I think they’ll work well,” said Newt as he unpacked and set up on his side table. 

“Oh?” 

“Yes, see?” Newt dug out a sketchbook and flipped it to a page in the middle, showing it to Crowley. “Since your eyes are your key feature for him, he’s got a gold theme, so lots of shimmer with the angelic look and for the night one we actually have a gold snake for you to pose with, so I’m incorporating a snake theme into that look.” 

“I see.” He handed back the sketchbook. 

Newt set it off to the side. “I’m going to start prepping your skin… Oh, you’ve already got some make up here. I’m going to have to remove it all… Oh, it goes below your neckline. Hmm, you might have to take this top off.”

“Do you have to? Can’t you just add on?”

“No, sorry. Um. Well, you see you’ve used a water-based concealer, which will move as you sweat and slide off, and if I put stuff over it'll still slide. I have to put a different, more solid base down. But don’t worry, once it’s on it’ll last all day, and blend in perfect.”

Crowley’s lips downturned, a pout on their already pouty lips. Newt tied Crowley's hair up and back, away from their face, set their sunglasses to the side, grabbed a cloth and bottle and set to scrubbing Crowley's face and neck clean, slowly revealing the bruises along the base of it. 

“Yes, sorry, these aren’t going to be covered by your second look — its a gown — so I’m going to need a halter for you to change into.” Newt turned to Aziraphale. “Would you mind?” 

Aziraphale blinked and looked around, finally pointing to himself and saying, “Mind what?”

“Fetching one for them? Aren’t you one of Mrs. Lewister’s assistants?”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened, but before he could say anything, Crowley spoke. “No, he’s not. He’s with me.” And with that, they started unbuttoning their tuxedo-like jacket and pulled it off, confirming Aziraphale’s earlier suspicions that it was their only upper garment, besides a satiny black bra. 

Aziraphale had idly wondered if the freckles went past the sun-kissed areas of Crowley’s skin, a fleeting thought he’d ruthlessly shoved down, but now the confirmation was in front of him that they did, speckling the top of their chest and abdomen. He found himself wanting to kiss each spot and that was  _ terrible _ , he was a professional. This was a  _ professional  _ setting and they were doing their job and he was doing his job and what kind of scum would stand here leering? 

His ears burned in shame and arousal and he lowered his gaze, moving to the edge of the tent to scan for outside threats. 

“You sure this is fine?” said Newt.

“Come on Newt, I’m still wearing my bottoms, this is more covered than our last photoshoot together.”

Newt barked an awkward laugh. “That’s true… But that was swimwear, though.”

“Cloth’s cloth.” 

There was a pause while Newt worked, then. “So he’s your boyfriend then?”

“Just a friend. He’s here to observe,” said Crowley. “You know how curious friends get.”

Aziraphale turned at this to smile and play along. Newt gave him a skeptical look but politely didn’t say anything as he wrapped up his skin cleaning. This gave Aziraphale a clear look at what were obviously finger marks bruised into the meat of Crowley’s neck and shoulders. Newt went to dig around in his cases and Aziraphale took a few steps around to get a better look at Cowley’s back, studying the marks with dispassionate scrutiny. 

Whoever Crowley’s assailant had been, they had some training in hand-to-hand, but were not an expert. The marks were uneven: one higher on the shoulder than the other, where they’d managed to press into the carotid artery on that side hard enough to bruise. That would have restricted blood flow. The assailant had attempted to do so with both hands but failed, the fingers of the other hand even leaving a small scratch where they’d lost their grip. 

At his level of training it was evident that someone had come at them from behind and attempted to restrict blood flow to their brain in an effort to make them pass out. It had probably been successful, despite their ineptitude, by being particularly forceful. Crowley had resisted, but not effectively. Whatever had happened after that hadn’t left physical evidence, though Aziraphale could imagine many terrible things that wouldn’t. 

This was when Aziraphale realized Crowley was looking straight at him as he stared at their bareness and bruises. Their eyes, more amber than gold in the shadows of the tent, looked pleading, vulnerable, and the silent accusation stabbed into him. 

He held his clasped hands in front of him as he bowed slightly over them, a silent plea to forgive the intrusion. Crowley turned their attention back to Newt who was shuffling through his drawers, rambling about the pros and cons of dimethicone in primers. Aziraphale managed to keep his gaze averted, thoroughly cowed by his own unbecoming conduct. 

Now he knew why they needed a bodyguard, at least. Not during events like this— broad daylight was not where such an attack would take place— but in between, in transit, that’s when he’d most need to be on the lookout for suspicious behavior. He’d make discreet inquiries later, since he’d been told this job would last for several months, and it was always easier to protect something if you knew what you were protecting it from. 

He noticed Newt’s topics had changed, and now he was apologizing for “glitter fall-out” and said he was moving on to hair. This earned a glance from Aziraphale, which quickly turned into a double-take.

Crowley sat with their eyes closed, champagne shimmer on their eyelids and the planes of their face glowing golden, the shadows somehow sharpened. Each of their freckles had been covered, the larger ones with dots of gold foil, the smaller ones with a fine gold glitter. Newt was even pulling some sort of gold mousse through Crowley’s tresses, giving their red locks a gilded shimmer in the sunlight. They looked like they were a mirage, a goddess come to earth, as ethereally beautiful as a bubble in the wind. It stole Aziraphale’s breath away, made his fingers tingle, as an ache built inside him. 

“Wow, that is… They don’t look real anymore!” Aziraphale blurted out, and immediately bit his tongue. How many times would he make an idiot of himself today? Crowley must think him a dog, must feel terribly objectified being gawked over by him, especially in light of their recent… victimization. Aziraphale should be making them feel safe, for goodness’s sake. He shouldn’t be acting like a randy animal. This was very unusual for him, he didn’t know why he was losing his head so much. He certainly never had before. 

“Why, thank you!” Newt smiled at him as he worked, pulling back Crowley’s hair into a french twist, artfully pulling a few strands free afterwards to frame their face. “I was worried the glitter and foil combination would be a bit much, but I think since they’re so small that it’s subtle enough to not feel overpowering.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful, Newt, your design looked very tasteful yet screamed working golden goddess,” said Crowley, still sitting with their eyes closed.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, rushing to reassure the poor nervous boy. “It’s very subtle, but very lovely. How do you get their skin to glow like that?”

“Oh, highlighters, uh, applied judiciously with a dewy, um, base? Too much and you look metallic, wh- which is a bit much for today’s concept. The trick is where you put it. You have to work with their underlying bone structure but also… change it in places.” And then he was off, hesitantly babbling about line work and exaggeration for emotional effect, somehow bringing his point around to animated films of all things. Crowley hummed here and there, just as they had before, friendly and encouraging, which Newt seemed to appreciate, if verbosity was any measure. This was apparently routine for them. 

Newt misted something all over Crowley and then proclaimed them finished. They stood, covering themselves with their top once more, and started to walk off. Aziraphale moved to follow and they stopped. 

“Oh no no, you stay away from the brass. I’ll be fine. Here, make yourself useful and hold onto this for me.” Crowley stepped closer, passing him their bag and leaning in a little to say in a low voice, “Nothing’s going to happen to me when there’s a photographer standing around taking pictures, alright?” 

“Good point. I’ll make myself scarce. Call if you need anything. Mind how you go.”

Crowley snorted and sauntered off, back near the driveway where a larger tent was set up. Aziraphale watched them go inside, stared vaguely at nothing until they reappeared wearing a sharp cream suit and tracked them as one of the people in jeans and a tee deeper into the gardens. 

Newt clattered behind him and he turned, found him juggling a make-up palette, trying unsuccessfully to not drop it. He heaved a deep sigh and bent to retrieve it, one of the little pans cracked and spilling powder. 

“Can I assist you?” said Aziraphale.

“Oh, no thank you, but thank you... I suppose I’ve said that twice… I’m fine, just a little butterfingers. I lose more product this way than I’d like, but it’s normal for me.” He smiled, a nervous half-hearted thing, then said more conspiratorially. “I think you’re cute, together, but you shouldn’t worry for them, I’m sure your … friend will be fine. Crowley’s one of the good ones, everyone likes them.”

“Do you work together often?”

“Have been lately. Lucky hires me for a lot of his productions and says Crowley is his muse.” Newt blinked, suddenly seeming nervous again, and Aziraphale put on his most soothing smile. Newt leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “Rumor has it that Lucky and a major designer are currently fighting over Crowley for ‘muse’ status, which I hope is true, that would be big for her— I mean, them. Did you know that’s how a lot of the big names got started? Jessica Stam's one of the last supermodels and that's what started her down that path. Crowley has such a high fashion look. Which is good for me, I do more high fashion, but for them that means that getting picked as a face can make or break their career.”

“Fascinating.”

“Yeah. I wish them well with it. Finger’s crossed, you know?” The dark haired model, Sophie, was approaching them. Newt waved to her and started prepping supplies, but turned to Aziraphale to add, “Oh and you’re welcome to hang out around here, while Crowley’s busy. You’ve been helpful and I sometimes just appreciate the company. Did you know I was thinking about joining an existing company rather than have my own just for companionship? And when you’re working as a self-employed artist, you know the taxes alone are… Hi Sophie, nice to meet you. I don’t believe we’ve worked together before?”

At this Aziraphale took the opportunity to leave before he was drawn back into a conversation. Newt would probably be a nice conversation partner, were he in the position to actually say anything, but Crowley had made it clear he was a to-be-seen-not-heard bodyguard, and it wouldn’t do to ruin this opportunity. He fished his earpiece out of his pocket and put it in, starting up his book where he left off. He had to skip back a chapter, but soon the words of Emily Bronte were being read into one ear, the other listening to the quiet around him. He paced between the different stations he could see while maintaining a respectful distance, stopping to stand straight and tall and stare at the going’s on, taking it all in, as per usual. 

Deirdre texted to ask if he'd make it home for dinner, but he replied that he would not. This client was likely to run until late evening and then he had his usual work site after. Though this posting was quite the upgrade, he couldn't afford to drop his other gigs.

Guard jobs gave him the luxury to read at work, and though he’d prefer to be reading the print himself, listening to stories was nearly as lovely. This was a good line of work he’d lucked into. Over the last seven years he’d worked very hard to get stronger, better, and to get placed in better and better positions that came with subsequent pay raises. This client was perfect for him. All he needed to ensure success at this post was to keep his snowballing attraction tamped down and stop showing his ass to his employer. 

* * *

Today was really trying Crowley’s patience. Lucky had them doing ridiculous poses, typical for him— he was known for his unconventional layouts, after all— but it was killing Crowley’s shoulder, which still hurt from where it’d been twisted. But if the boss wanted them hanging from a tree sideways so that they had a range of options, Crowley would hang there all he wanted and smile about it. Crowley was the lucky one here, having garnered the attention of such a high profile figure, and it was ramping up their career in ways they’d only dreamed of. 

Lunch was hot sandwiches and they all had cheese melted on them, so they had only gotten a bit of chips to eat all day. Crowley was lactose intolerant and knew better than to eat dairy when on a job. They couldn’t stop to go to the bathroom every five minutes. They had downed three ‘enhanced waters’ to try and fill their growling stomach, and it had helped for all of an hour, but now they were peeing like a sieve. For the moment they just had to wait around, play on their phone till all the other models were done so they could do their second shoot, but everything was irritating and boring.

All this was on top of waking up sore, then having this cherubic dumpling of a body guard assigned to him, who had been incredibly distracting all morning with his glowing white curls and his dimples and his soft hands. He was adorable, but what was Madame Tracy thinking, hiring some eye-candy dandy to stand around and look pretty? It’s not like he was more than a glorified chaperone. There was nothing that human marshmallow would be able to do against someone hell-bent on attacking them. Which was beside the point, because the point was that it had just been one random mugging, some property theft, nothing to be all up in arms about. How dare she saddle them with a nanny! They were a grown person, fully capable of taking care of themselves and they resented the implication otherwise.

They had a face-to-face with her tomorrow anyway, before they both went to go see the designer who was making inquiries and they’d argue about it more then. Nothing good would come of this. Crowley's life was best when they were by themselves. 

_ “You could never make it out there on your own! You’re so much work, always needing someone to hold your hand everywhere you go. Everyone else gets it, but you don’t, too stupid or thick headed, you have to question every little fucking thing! You’ll never last out there, you’ll end up getting used, mark my words, a skinny thing like you. All you're good for is selling your body. You'll be whoring in less than a month.”  _

It had been years, but their father's words from the last time they spoke still stung. Crowley shook the memories away, and stood to go walk off some of his irritation but wobbled a bit, woozy. Fell appeared out of seemingly nowhere to hold them up by their elbow and handed them a sugary drink of some sort. 

“Here you go, my dear. I think this will help you. Would you like to sit in the shade? It’s warming up a bit, isn’t it?” he said. Fell started walking, gently steering them to a bench beneath a tree, a shady seat that they took and sipped the beverage they had been handed. It made them feel better almost immediately. 

Ugh. Stupid cheesy lunch. “Gimme my bag.” 

“Ah, yes, of course,” Fell said, and he beamed, literally glowing with joy as he handed back the bulky designer bag. He was ridiculous. How could a real person be like this? Crowley ignored him in order to not risk basking in the blinding pleasure the man radiated like a lighthouse from those now-hazel eyes. Instead they buried their head in their purse, digging around in the massive pile of things they carried on them. They were sure they kept snacks in there of some sort.

Triumph! They pulled out two slightly dented granola bars, tore them open and started chowing down, which earned them a smaller smile and approving glances from their  _ bodyguard _ . Ugh, that made their stomach do flip-flops, but that was really what he was though. 

It was several more hours of waiting, which didn’t seem to bother Mr. Dandy-lion in the slightest; he just watched and waited with the patience of a saint. From that point forward all Crowley had to do was think that a drink would be nice and miraculously he’d be right there, offering them one from those beautiful hands, with their impractical manicure. 

It would have been maddening if it hadn’t been so soothing. The man was a rock-steady, reliable presence who neither asked questions nor judged, which was unheard of in this industry. Everyone was constantly prying, asking them about their personal life, their friends and family and where they grew up and all questions they really, really didn’t want to think about, much less answer. Why would he tell his coworkers, yes, I’m estranged from my family, have been for years and better for it, I don’t have any friends because I’m fake and boring, and P.S. no love life to think of, so don’t ask? They’d dated before —once— and that had been a mistake they weren’t willing to inflict on themselves again.

Even if their colleagues weren’t prying, they were still usually up to no good, trying to sabotage each other. It was a cutthroat industry and Crowley had dealt with plenty of other people saying things behind their back to try and claw their own way into favor. They could never forget, they were always competing against one another for the same limited number of jobs. There were always new pretty faces and yours just kept getting older. Crowley couldn’t ever relax while at work, they had to have their guard up, keep their facade perfect or else it would all come crumbling down. 

The fact that Fell’s nose tilted just at the tip, a little permanent boop, and his eyes changed color depending on the lighting were enjoyable distractions from all that, if difficult. Crowley couldn’t afford to let their guard down, but they didn’t pace or fret nearly as much as usual, and they’d mostly avoided Isabella. Last time she’d tried to get him nervous by constantly praising their photographer and emphasizing what an opportunity they had. It had worked, but she didn’t need to know that. Effective bitch.

Finally, it was his turn back in Newt’s chair, to get his second look on. 

“Welcome back!” Newt greeted him warmly, as usual. They’d worked together nearly a dozen times, and Crowley was beginning to believe the warmth was not affected. “Nice to see the first look held up, since I’ll be modifying and amping it up, not starting from scratch.”

“ ‘Course it held up, you’re the best at what you do, Newt.”

“Did you want to see the concept art for your second look?”

“Always. I love your stuff.” and Crowley meant it. Newt was a real talent who undersold himself. It helped that he was also the only make-up artist they’d worked with who used the right pronouns, though how he’d gleaned that information was a mystery. They never corrected pronouns, never. It was always a minefield to correct people on things, especially bosses and the like, and this was not a hill their career would die on. 

Newt flipped open his sketchbook and showed them. It was amazingly realistic, as usual, starting with a very accurate sketch of Crowley wearing a black gown and gloves, with a smoky, sultry eye, red lips and black and gold snake scale pattern all along their edges. 

“Very cool. Otherworldly indeed.”

“Thanks. I think costuming ditched the glove idea though so we’re going to continue the pattern down your arms and hands.” This time, he tilted it to show it to Fell as well, who gasped, a big open-mouthed thing that was almost comical in it’s sincerity. 

“Why, that is gorgeous! You are such a talented artist, it looks exactly like Crowley!” Fell said, clearly awed. “Do you sell your drawing talents as well?”

“Oh no, no, I can’t,” said Newt, who looked a bit downcast as he put away his sketchbook. “I’m a physical media only artist. Everything these days needs at least a little bit of digital work unless you can manage to be famous enough for gallery work, which I’m not. Computers and I just don’t get along.”

“How unfortunate.” 

Crowley had previously had a similar conversation, since Newt was also one of the only make up artists who drew their models for concept art. All the other make-up artists just tested their product combinations on a standard paper face template and didn’t go out of their way to show them to the models. The man clearly enjoyed his drawings, and enjoyed it when others did too, or else he wouldn’t show them to everyone. Crowley always made a point of Ooohing and Aahing as much as Newt liked. 

“So. How’s your family doing, Newt?” said Crowley.

As he worked, Newt gushed about his mom, who was having a dinner party soon, apparently, and was feeding him practice dishes. At one point as he was using a scale stencil he jumped and ran back to his bags, saying he’d just remembered something. He pulled out a bag of yellow delicious apples and picked out a couple, then added gold scale stenciling on them in a few places, touching up with his airbrush. The sight made Crowley’s mouth water, they were so hungry. 

They begged off a few of the spares, though Newt insisted he get them cut up and not eat off the core, or else risk messing up the make up. Fell hustled off with them, returning promptly with delicate cubes on a plate that he handed off. The apple pieces were perfectly bite-sized, and they popped them one by one in their mouth, sighing in relief as they ate. Newt didn’t seem to mind, probably used to working around hungry models, but it seemed to fluster Fell, for some reason. 

At least, Crowley thought that Fell got all stiff and vacant like a Queen’s guard when flustered, if the blush on those apple-cheeks was anything to go by. Formal bugger. They’d only agreed to a week of him being around. What an annoying week it was shaping up to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The grumpy one is gonna fall in love with the sunshine one! :D
> 
> Does it count as enemies to friends to lovers if you resent someone but then come to like them but still resent needing their help and having them fake liking you, but then fall in love and later discover it was mutual? :D


	2. She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire is beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, not up close.

The sun was starting to set by the time the other models had finished, but that meant Crowley got the Golden Hour, a small boon for having to wait so long between sets. Sophie returned on Lucky’s arm, heading back to the hair and make-up tent as they laughed and joked. Lucky looked up as they approached and noticed Crowley, patted Sophie's arm and made his goodbyes. 

He waved Crowley over and called from across the garden, “Ready to come with me, darling?” 

Fell swiveled and pointed at himself, eyebrows drawn down in confusion. 

“No, you idiot, he’s talking to me,” Crowley hissed quietly, so as to not be overheard. 

“Ah, of course. Silly me,” said Fell, and flicked his wrist at himself in a foppish, dismissive gesture. 

Crowley stood from the bench they’d been waiting on after they changed into their second costume, a slinky long black gown. This one had a plunging, but very narrow neckline so costuming had given them some stick-on boob pads, trying to bulk out their flat chest. Can’t have an a-cup seductress, no, who would be possibly attracted to that? The snakeskin leather panels on the bodice were a nice touch, going with the theme, though they were hot and making the sticky boob tape itchy. They’d also had Crowley put in slitted pupil contacts, and they hated wearing contacts, weird feeling things that irritated their eyes. Crowley thrust their bag back at Fell and pointedly ignored him as he went to join today’s art director.

“Who is your peacock, little Jay birdie?” asked Lucky. 

“That’s Fell, he’s a friend, don’t mind him. He’s a little star struck by everyone. You’re a big name.”

“I am, indeed. But you don’t have to hide it, you have an adorable boyfriend, and so patient to wait with you all day without complaint. Terribly convenient for bag holding, I see.”

Crowley bit the inside of their cheek, trying their damnedest to contain their annoyance and urge to correct him. Just, why did they all have to jump to that conclusion? Why did Tracy have to be right this time? But Crowley knew better than to attempt to correct an authority figure, knew better than act uppity. It would only end with outrage and punishment, like it always had. There wasn’t any point in trying to correct the assumption when it would endanger their valuable networking. 

Lucky gestured up and down Crowley’s body and said, “This is wonderful! So tempting, you look like a fruit I want to pluck! I love the touch ups on that apple as well! I’m glad we went with that extra. Did anyone tell you you’re working with a co-star today? Make sure you don’t let her pull focus, my little birdie.”

Crowley fought a frown, unsuccessfully if Lucky’s chuckle was anything to go by. “No, they didn’t. Is it Sophie? Isabella is already out of her make-up…” 

“I tease, darling, I tease. We have a trained snake handler just for you, who will be managing your co-star, who is a golden snake. Have you ever handled snakes before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“That’s okay.” Lucky patted their arm. “I’m sure it’s going to be very safe. I don’t think this is a biting snake. And I would never let anything happen to my shining jewel, my muse! If only you had a contract with me, I could keep you safe and flush with opportunities in the business too, you know.” 

“I do, and am grateful for you. I can't sign contracts on my own, since I’m with an agency, so let’s both hope Ms. Potts decides in your favor,” Crowley lied, flashing their most soothing smile. They hadn’t decided which contract was better yet, and Lucky was pushing for exclusivity. They owed a lot to Lucky, and considered the dapper man his biggest supporter in the industry. If he was a little irritating and overly fond of diminutives, c'est la vie because business was business and they were in no position to be picky. 

They arrived at the first location where the crew were adjusting the lights. One of the grips was waiting with a reflector, as was a man with a very large python coiled around him. Lucky left to go behind his den of monitors and equipment on a rolling table, where he started calling out directions and talking to the photographer. The snake-handler gave Crowley the rules for handling, draped the snake around their body and set them up in the shot. Very quickly Crowley was alone in front of the camera and modeling. 

They were a professional, even with a ten foot snake wrapped around their body. Pose, pause, breathe. Pose, pause, breathe. There was a rhythm to a shoot. Move just enough to interest, pause for a shot, keep a close eye on the camera and the photographer’s face, because it’ll let you know if your poses are being well received or not. The art director calls out moods and shots they want; you give it to them. The photographer yells out what they want; you give it to them. Quirk a brow, snap a wrist, cock a hip, point your toes, and always, always ooze emotions, all of them, each in turn. Crowley was good at what they did, had years of practice at it, and Lucky always got the shots he asked for.

On their last location, the snake started to get restless and swung its head up and around, hovering over Crowley’s shoulder. They turned and found themselves face to face with a hissing python, so they hissed back, which got Lucky to scream “Oh girl,  _ Fierce _ !” and the coo about an amazing shot Harry got. The snake was nonplussed, apparently finished hissing, so Crowley made as if to kiss it’s snoot, leaning with a cocked hip and heard the shutter clicking like a machine gun. 

“Brilliant Birdie, just wonderful! Oh, those are genius shots. You mark my words, those are going to be the winning frames. This campaign will be begging you for more! You are like twin sisters with that snake, both so dangerous and glamorous. That’s a wrap! Breakdown everyone, and good work!” Lucky clapped, a two-hit noise of dismissal, and turned back to his monitors. 

The snake handler removed their co-star and Crowley sagged, aching everywhere. Holding still in unnatural positions just because they looked good for hours a day was exhausting, and they’d definitely burned through the little energy given by the bits of food they’d had. People really underestimated the core strength models needed to succeed. Crowley was getting a bit woozy again. They headed back to the costume tent and then to the hair and make-up tent, where Newt would remove all the make-up with his special cleansers, so they could go home. 

Fell joined them as soon as he saw them, handed them another sugar drink silently, and just followed with a smile fixed on his face as they got changed and cleaned. Was Crowley so obvious? No one else seemed to notice their exhaustion and dizziness. They pointedly did not thank the man. Why draw attention to it or him? They didn’t need someone hovering about. Especially considering how it set something off in their stomach, making it twist and flutter. Best to discourage it.

By nightfall they had packed up everything and were back in their people movers, on the way back into the city. Fell had seen Crowley to the van and then pitched in, loading many cases and boxes, which had endeared him to the rest of the crew, and they tried to include him in their gossip on the way back. Fell did a good job and followed Crowley’s instructions, keeping it light and polite and nothing more. 

_ Good. Good boy.  _

When they arrived back behind Ms. Lewistar’s office, her staff set to work and Mr. Winslow and Lucky bid the models adieu, giving cheek kisses and an “au revoir” to each of them, officially releasing them from their duties. Crowley immediately left, and once out of sight and hearing range, started snarling a little, finally able to vent the frustrations of the day and act as irritable as they felt. 

Fell said nothing, just followed a half-step or so behind as they marched back to his weird little not-taxi, rushing ahead to unlock it and open the door for Crowley when they neared. They dropped to the seat carelessly this time, fuck the wrinkles that would result, and Fell closed their door for them. Crowley ripped off their shoes, blighted painful things, and mumbled swears about women’s footwear. 

A nearby chuckle alerted them that their cream-puff chaperone was behind the wheel and could hear the complaining, which made them feel self-conscious, but at least he didn’t seem to mind. 

“That was a long day and I ache from top to bottom, especially in the middle, where my stomach used to be before it ate a hole to my spine,” Crowley said and flopped their head back, stretching their toes out as well as they could in a cab. 

“I’m sure you did a marvelous job. Would you like to stop for dinner, sir?” said Fell as he pulled out of the park and began driving. 

“I know I did a marvelous job, because I  _ always  _ do a marvelous job. I don’t need you to tell me that. And what would you know about it, anyway?”

“Very true, sir, my apologies. Dinner?”

“Nah, I’ll just pick up some kebab from the shop near my place.” Crowley fished out their walking flats from their bag and slipped them on.

“Very good, sir.”

This drive across the city was quite a bit shorter than their last one into it, even with London traffic being what it is. Unsurprisingly, once they’d parked near Crowley’s home their bodyguard kept following them. After a few blocks Crowley felt wetness hit their hair, and they stopped walking to hold a hand up in front of them. Raindrops hit their palm, then their forehead. _ Oh great, just what I need to cap off a stressful day. Rain soaked ballet flats.  _

Then suddenly Fell was standing right beside them, holding his coat up with both arms to hover over Crowley’s head and shoulders, shielding them from the rain as it pattered down around them. Crowley’s eyes widened and they turned, watching as the water, unhindered, plastered Fell’s white curls to his head. The man must have pulled off his coat without giving it any thought at all to shield them, leaving himself vulnerable to the weather. Their eyes met, and Fell offered a shy smile before turning to look straight ahead. 

Crowley just stood there, heart pounding, staring as the rain started to really come down. It ran in little rivulets down the creases of the man's face, across his soft cheeks and strong brow. Fell was getting soaked, and he didn’t seem to mind at all, as he just kept standing there, waiting for Crowley.

It was mind boggling. It was intriguing. It made Crowley feel like something in them was cracked and leaking, spilling warm liquids into their innards. They didn’t understand what was happening, what to think. What was this? 

What this was, they decided, was stupid. Fell was getting soaked. Look at him, he looked like an idiot standing there getting drenched. Crowley finally shook off whatever nonsense had invaded them and reached into their bag, feeling around for the compact umbrella they kept in there. They lived in London and walked most places they went, of course they carried an umbrella. Crowley snorted and held it out. 

“Oh, wonderful,” Fell said, awkwardly taking it with his far hand so that his coat stayed shielding Crowley. He managed to pop it out one-handed and then traded it out so smoothly that nary a drop of rain landed on them. Fell folded his coat over his arm and stood there, holding the little umbrella over Crowley, still standing in the rain. 

“Get over here, you big lummox. Stop standing in the rain like a turkey,” Crowley growled and yanked Fell by his lapels, pulling till their bodies were nearly flush, squeezing them both under the little umbrella so their shoulders pressed together.

“Oh dear, I’ll get your clothes all wet,” said Fell, gently resisting.

“They’ll dry,” Crowley stated and firmed their grip. Fell relented, obeying. Crowley gave him a single approving nod, then started walking again, much slower and with a bit of jostling as their bodyguard tried to stay close and out of the rain. 

They arrived without further incident, and Crowley finally got a full meal in them, sighing in relief as they stuffed their face full of chips. Late night kebab was a staple of their diet after long, exhausting shoots. It’s oily rich goodness was exactly what they needed. 

Fell had shaken off the umbrella outside, and then joined them, if standing against the wall behind him, patiently waiting, counted as joining. Crowley was too hungry to notice, at first, and then too tired to care. 

Fortunately the rain let up by the time Crowley was ready to go, so the walk back to their flat was less eventful, though Fell held onto the umbrella, seemingly at the ready to guard them from moisture. They reached Crowley’s without further incident, and while digging in their oversized purse for keys, Fell spoke up. 

“Before you go, sir, here is my card.”

Crowley took the proffered umbrella and business card, glanced at it, then read it out loud with a scoff, “A. Z. Fell, Professional Security Guard & Defensive Arts Teacher?” This human ray of sunshine? That was so unbelievable it was laughable. Was he going to  _ hug  _ people into submission?

“Precisely! My phone number is on there, it’s my cell, so please call if you need me, any time day or night. If you need to go out, for anything, I’m at your beck and call, as your private personal protection.”

“... Right.” Crowley chuckled, silently adding,  _ Private personal protection. You’re not a condom, you know. _ Was the man really that oblivious to double entendre? Or was it just impossible for him to talk about his job without innuendo?

“You mentioned an appointment tomorrow? What time shall I pick you up?”

“Oh, you're picking me up now, are you?” Crowley chuckled.

Fells looked confused for a moment, then became abashed and stuttered out, “You- you… I mean, Oh dear. You know what I mean.”

Crowley hummed, pleased. They did know, but it was fun to fuck with him. “Need to be at a meeting with Tracy at noon, so 11 or so should be plenty of time. Then she’s taking me on a go see. Done after that, most likely, but no idea how long all that’ll take. Probably all day.” 

“Wonderful. I’ll be back then.” 

And then he stood there, waiting, until Crowley had unlocked their door and was closing it behind them. Only then did he leave. Crowley watched his retreating back from the peephole, his clothes soaked through, and suddenly felt like an arsehole. They hadn’t even offered a towel or anything. They turned away, ignoring their messy feelings, and took in their empty flat, it’s grey walls and empty shelves quietly regarding him back with their cold embrace. It sunk into him, the quiet, the emptiness. A return to normalcy, which Crowley wore like a wrong-sized shoe. This business with Fell had him all out of sorts. There was no reason to feel lonely. They were fine, they’d lived like this since they were 16. It was old hat now, and the best living situation they’d had. There was nothing to complain about other than the cheapness of their surroundings. A shower would surely wash away the day’s stress, and then everything would go back to normal. 

* * *

After securing his own dinner, Aziraphale parked the cab in its leased space in the multistory car park where he usually left it overnight. He carefully unlocked and opened the driver’s side back door, getting out his duffel bag without disturbing any of the haphazardly stacked books that filled the entire back of the cab, then locked the car up, as always pleased and impressed that the dark smoky windows completely obscured its very full contents. He walked a few blocks to his usual launderettes, intent of rectifying the wet mess of his clothing. 

Once there, he stripped in the bathroom, changing into his tight black shirt and loose black training pants that he’d need to be in later for his next work site. Monday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights he worked as a bouncer, which was a very different kind of guard duty that his day shifts at the museum, or this personal bodyguard position. Same basic job,  _ very  _ different presentations while doing it. Once he was changed and got things running through a dryer he pulled out his phone and called Deidre.

“Hello, Aziraphale!” said Deidre. “How was the new position?”

“Oh, went swimmingly. Much more active than my usual day locations, and the pay is much better. I should be able to get the rent money to you early this month. Got a bit wet, and I’ll need to get a big umbrella. How were the kids today? Any issues? Everyone safe at home tonight?”

“No problems at all, though I think Wensleydale was disappointed that you wouldn’t be home for dinner. I think he had something to tell you.”

Aziraphale felt a stab of pain knowing he’d disappointed the boy. He was trying so hard to be a good guardian, and to help them feel cared for in a way they deserved, a way they’d not had enough of in the past. But kids were expensive, and rent was expensive, and work took time. It was no excuse, he had to do his best to balance it all, and if he was disappointing children who’d already had enough disappointment as it was, then he wasn’t good enough. “I’ll make sure to call him next. How was Warlock today?”

“Morose, but not more than usual. The paperwork’s coming along and I think we’ll have them enrolled in another week or less, but I haven’t said anything to them and I won’t till you think it’s safe. They’ve stopped running away from therapy, which their Doctor thinks is a great sign, and was happy to let me know when I picked them up. I forgot to text you and let you know they’ve agreed to change future appointments. I was making lasagna for dinner.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry to have missed that, yours is scrumptious. Thank you as always for helping me. I couldn’t do this on my own.” Guilt and shame flooded Aziraphale. He wasn’t a very good guardian, relying so much on others, spending all his time at work. Neglecting the children he’d promised to care for. 

“Think nothing of it Aziraphale. It’s quite lively but I enjoy it. You’ve brought a lot of love into my old home, and I’m glad you were the one who answered our advert. Even Arthur enjoys the excitement, to say nothing of the good friends Adam’s made. I know how hard you work but you’re nothing but a blessing to any of our lives, especially your kids.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale rubbed his chest where it ached. Parenting teenagers was hard, and he was struggling with striking the right balance of overseeing them and making sure they were supported but also allowing them their budding freedom and independence. He was doing his best, and his efforts had been paying off so far. He needed to stop being so hard on himself. “I needed to hear that… Best be going, though. Got kids to check in with before my next shift. Good night, Deirdre.”

“Good night, Aziraphale.”

After ending the call he took a moment, working to clear away any of his negativity. It wouldn’t do to let his charges hear it. Then he dialed up Wensleydale. 

“Aziraphale! I missed you today,” said the lad. His voice was as bright and chipper as usual. 

“So sorry, my dear. I found myself with a new posting assigned to me this morning and I didn’t know how long it would take. It looks like this new one will be a bit erratic so I’m sorry to say I’m likely to be unable to come home some days. Tomorrow isn’t looking likely either. You can always text me and I’ll respond as promptly as I can, you know? I’m here for you.”

“I know. I just didn’t want to tell you by text. It seemed wrong.”

“Oh? Tell me what, dear boy?”

“I think I’ve picked out a name! Jeremy.”

“Oh, that is exciting news! Jeremy Wensleydale? That has a lovely sound to it. Did you want me to change what I call you?”

“No, I still like Wensleydale best, but you know, I gotta have a first name for the paperwork. I’m going to change it for teachers and stuff though. I think I'll like it enough to stick with it forever.”

“Well let me know if you change your mind, and what decisions you make about when you want to legally change it. You remember the processes, all the hoops for minors and non-minors?”

“Yeah. I haven’t decided if I want to wait or not yet.”

“Well, it’s your decision. Don’t rush it, there’s no hurry. I’ll be here either way.” 

“Thanks, Aziraphale.”

They chatted a bit more about Wensleydale’s day, small topics about school and friends and food before he wished him a good night and ended the call. Next, Aziraphale called Pepper, who was apparently doing homework with Brian, and though he had his suspicions that they were goofing off, he didn’t say anything. This seemed to relieve them. They were also both well, and not particularly chatty today, so it was a short call. 

Pepper was the first of his kids, and they’d been together for a few years now. He’d had legal guardianship for all but the first year, so he knew her ways. She was likely playing some video games with Brian, but she usually didn’t stay up too late even when left to her own devices, and she kept her grades up and mostly didn’t get into trouble. Mostly. She didn’t start fights. Often. Anymore. 

Last was Warlock, his newest charge, who had only been there a few months. 

“Hello, Warlock,” said Aziraphale gently. It was important he sounded interested but neutral, as Warlock was very touchy about other people’s emotions and Aziraphale didn’t want to set off any landmines this evening. “I’m just calling to check in, since I couldn’t get by to see everyone this evening. Is everything… adequate?”

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“Good. Have there been any problems between you and the other kids?” 

“Adam’s a bossy twat.”

Aziraphale smiled, but tried to keep it out of his voice. “I’m sorry you think so. Is he bossing you around? Would you like me to say something to him?”

“No, he’s leaving me alone. And don’t tell him I said that!”

“No, of course, absolutely not! I would never! What you say to me is said in confidence. Besides, Adam  _ is  _ bossy. We all know that already.”

Warlock grunted. 

“Are you eating? Is there enough food for you?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Let me know if you run out of anything. It’s important to eat, even when you are very tired or sad and don’t feel like it.”

They sighed. “I know.” 

“Good. I think we’ll be able to finally go clothes shopping this weekend. Friday’s paycheck should be larger than usual. I know you’re very fond of the three outfits you have, but it would help me greatly if you’d think about what kind of clothes you’d like to get before Sunday.”

There was a long pause before a very pouty, very dubious Warlock replied. “Where do we have to shop?”

Aziraphale rushed to correct them as gently as he could. “Oh no, you don’t  _ have  _ to shop anywhere. I would  _ like  _ to buy you more clothes, but if you don’t want me to, I won’t. And if you would like some, and agree that it would benefit you, we can go anywhere you’d like to buy whatever clothes you’d like, within a certain budget. I’ll only have about a hundred pounds for this trip, so you’re welcome to look things up on your phone, and any way you’d like to spend that is fine. I’d just prefer you try them on in person before we buy them, make sure they’re comfortable and fit.”

“... Alright.”

“Wonderful. Text me if you’d like to talk, anytime, you know I’ll be up till three in case you can’t sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Warlock.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

And they hung up. Being away from Warlock was the hardest, since the kid was in such a vulnerable place. But they were 16, and Aziraphale a near stranger at this point, so it was probably for the best that work kept him from smothering them. They weren’t like Wensleydale and didn’t really enjoy affection. Aziraphale did. Aziraphale loved lavishing people with attention and food and kindness. He loved having people to dote on, to care for and be devoted to. He’d not really known that about himself till he’d taken Pepper in, but the older he got the more he loved it, and he was still so young. He’d always been accused of being an “old soul” because it was true. He was young on the outside but such a boring old man on the inside. Aziraphale’s idea of living the high life was grocery shopping with his loved ones, having enough money for nice wine with a fancy dinner once a week, and falling asleep in a cluttered home filled with books, joy and hugs. 

He had one of those three things, at least, and he was only in his mid-twenties. There was time.

* * *

Warlock hadn’t been able to sleep, and Aziraphale had ended up going back to check on them in the night. They were fine, but it meant he’d only gotten two hours sleep on the couch before the other kids were up and getting ready for school, and although he managed to squeeze in four more hours of rest, it gave him a bit of a crick in his neck. 

But traffic wasn’t bad and picking up Crowley had gone without a hitch, so the day was looking up already. Today they wore much simpler clothes, a sleeveless black top, jeans and a different pair of designer shades, with a plain tan pump. Even though he’d seen Crowley in just their bra yesterday, the nature of today’s outfit was more attractive in it’s casual simplicity, as if Crowley was at ease with him. 

They went to a swank office in Kensington, filled with black glass and headshots of beautiful people in the reception room, and then the lovely receptionist took them back to meet this Tracy in her private office. She was an older lady, with a curly ginger bob, and a bright green polka dot dress, overall very colorful and eclectic looking, sitting behind a huge black glass desk. 

Crowley greeted her with a chipper, “Madame Tracy! Always lovely, but especially loving this new hair color on you. So vibrant!” 

She pressed her lips and gave a firm look. “I know it’s just a joke, but do be careful of where you say that,” she said. She softened and stood, drawing Crowley in for cheek kisses. “You’re looking good yourself, dearie.” 

“I say it lovingly! Madam Tracy is the best agent there is, takes care of her girls better than the finest of brothels could ever dream.” 

“Oooh, and who's this then?” Tracey stepped away from her desk and reached for Aziraphale, so he mimicked the other industry people he’d seen to return her air kisses above both cheeks. 

“A. Z. Fell, at your service, Miss… ?”

“My name’s Marjorie Potts, but you can call me Tracy like everyone else. It’s my middle name and what I went by back when I was a model. Mista Shadwell highly recommended you, said you were his best, and it looks like I owe him one for that. You are just perfect, look at you, what a dapper gentleman you are. I could sell that cute face, mark my words.” Crowley flopped into the seat in front of the desk rather dramatically, drawing everyone’s attention back to them, and so Tracy gave him one goodbye pat and returned to her seat behind her desk. Aziraphale took up a post by the door and assumed his most vacant stare into the middle distance. Best to look as not-present as possible during a private meeting. Guards needed to blend into the background. 

“Right. Down to business then,” said Ms. Potts. “As you know, a designer has taken an interest in your work and together we’ve got a go see set up. It’s the head designer of a new division of the Dior brand. They’ve expressed interest in using you as a muse for their winter and spring collections this year.” She pulled out a binder and handed it to Crowley, who started flipping through it. “This new division has only been up and running for about 6 months, but as you can see in the dossier they’re a more quirky, youthful style than the main fashion house. They’ve generated quite a bit of new press, especially considering their hidden pop culture references. People notice them and then it makes headlines again. It’s an interesting marketing strategy, I’ll give them that.”

Crowley flipped through the dossier in silence, their face wrinkled in concentration. “A lot of this is ready-to-wear, not high fashion.”

“Yes, and they’ve a lower price point on commercial products than the main house as well.” Crowley frowned. “I know, love, I know. I’m not trying to dump you into commercial, I don’t think you’d sell as well there either. We’ll see what the designer wants to put you in before we accept anything. And the good news is they’re not pushing for any form of exclusivity, even if they do try to steer you that way.” This seemed to mollify Crowley, who closed the dossier and handed it back. “Now, before we go I’ve got your full portfolio here, and I wanted you to let me know if there was anything you wanted me to pull or highlight.” She handed them another binder, this one much larger size and with a leather cover. 

Crowley flipped through it slowly, pensive, and Aziraphale strained to watch out of the corner of his eye. The pictures were gorgeous, all of Crowley, from all angles, in their golden-eyed, long-limbed glory, and Aziraphale quietly drank in the sight. Crowley’s face in profile, dark shadows highlighting their cheekbones with jeweled rings glittering from their fingers as they held their chin. Crowley laying on the beach in a bikini, their oiled body glistening in the sunlight. Crowley lounging on a desk in a three-piece suit, beckoning with long, graceful fingers. Crowley with bright make-up blowing a kiss to the viewer. Crowley laughing broadly, lit up with joy, dancing in a swirling sun dress.

He really shouldn’t, he reminded himself. This was his  _ client _ , someone who would have nothing to do with a fat nobody like him except professionally. Crowley removed a few pages here and there, shuffling some to the front, and then closed the portfolio, breaking it’s entrancing hold on Aziraphale.

“And Lucky’s still pushing for exclusivity, yeah?”

“Mr. Morgenshtern is, yes, though I’m still not sure if that’s a dealbreaker in our negotiations. He is very fond of you, and the various ad campaigns he’s brought you in for are doing well, so even without this contract I don’t think that well will dry up, yet. Nevertheless, I’m trying my best to land you both contracts, as unlikely as that is looking, because it changes your two year outlook from six figures to seven, and that’s the step up you need to be playing in the big leagues.”

At that it took all of Aziraphale’s professionalism to not react or otherwise seem as if he’d been paying attention. They were discussing  _ million  _ pound contracts. Why on God’s green earth were they living in that dinky, run-down studio when they were earning so much money? Crowley just nodded along, unfazed by the sizable figures being discussed. 

“Any other questions, dearie?” asked Ms. Potts.

“Yeah, when can I ditch the ripped-from-history nanny?” they said, pointing a thumb at Aziraphale. 

“That’s not very nice, he’s a highly recommended bodyguard, and he was told to dress to fit in. I think he does, if a bit of a specific sort.” 

“Yes, but I don’t  _ need  _ a bodyguard. It was just a random mugging.”

“It was  _ not  _ just a random mugging. You were found unconscious in an alley not two buildings down from a job with a man stripping you.”

“Of thousands of pounds of designer goods!”

“Of your  _ clothes _ . You were down to skivvies! And yes, they did steal all your expensive clothing and accessories, but that was likely not their  _ only  _ goal, so stop arguing with me. You’re lucky it wasn’t an abduction.” She gentled her tone, walking around to place a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “These things happen in this industry. You get your face out there and someone gets bold ideas about it, you’ve got to make sure you’re well defended to discourage them. They usually give up in a few months, and I promise if we see nothing suspicious by then you can go back to normal.” 

“Everyone, literally everyone, assumed he was my boyfriend at the shoot yesterday even though I said he was just a friend. It was humiliating.” Aziraphale suppressed a wince. That stung. He knew already that Crowley was out of his league, but it still hurt to hear that the mere thought itself was so repulsive. “Can’t he at least be my assistant or something?” 

“And just who do you think you are, then? A  _ model  _ with a personal assistant. Are you Giselle? Iman?”

Crowley pouted and slid low in the chair. “No.”

“That’s right, and you know how that looks.  _ Diva _ . You want to get branded a Diva, then? You know that’s the kiss of death.”

Crowley looked sullen.

“I’m sorry you don’t like it, I know you hate it when people pry into your personal life, but we don’t want to make your assault public knowledge. Industry doesn’t like complications, and they don’t want to deal with stalkers, even though it’s not right or fair of them, it’s the way it is. You don’t want it obvious he’s a bodyguard. Family is common and accepted on set, especially when models are so young, but he can’t pass for a blood relative. So. Boyfriend or fiance, your choice.”

“ _ Fine _ .”

“You’re welcome to use him for assistant tasks as well. He’s certainly being paid well enough for it, isn’t that right Mr. Fell?”

A bit startled at being addressed, it took Aziraphale a moment to gather his thoughts and reply. “Yes, of course. I’m completely at your disposal in any capacity you require.”

This made Crowley avert their eyes, a dusting of pink on their cheeks, for some unknown reason. 

“Ooooh, yes, see Crowley dearie? Which is good because I really don’t want you running errands or anything without him, just in case it is a stalker. Another set of eyes looking out for you can’t hurt.” 

Crowley grumbled an assent and there was a bit more shop-talk before they packed up and headed out. The three of them walked to their next destination, as it was only a few blocks away in a similar office building. Inside was a high ceiling workshop filled with racks of clothes and a few people working at sewing machines at the very back, through a doorway. To one side of the room was a whiteboard covered in taped up sketches of clothing, all loose and flowing, and a conference table. There was a seating area with a couch near the entrance that Ms. Potts and Crowley sat down on, waiting to be noticed. Aziraphale parked himself to the side, nearer the door, and resumed looking nondescript. 

Before long a beautiful woman arrived from the back, wearing Harry Potter glasses and long, flowing garments. She oozed dignity like a queen. Ms. Potts jumped up and rushed to greet her. 

“Anathema Device, Head Designer for Ko’ushichan Dior. A pleasure to meet you in person, Tracy. And you must be Antoinette J. Crowley.”

“I usually go by J. Crowley, unless you want to lean into the guillotine vibes,” they said as they shook hands with the designer, who cracked up laughing so hard she snorted a little. 

“I was right to request you, you’re fantastic. Alright, Jay then. Let’s have a seat,” She took the one chair to the side and the others resumed sitting on the couch. They exchanged pleasantries and small talk for a bit, with Ms. Potts taking a background role. Anathema asked for Crowley’s portfolio, and they sat in silence as she flipped through it contemplatively. 

Part of Aziraphale, a part he ruthlessly tamped down, was a little sad he wasn’t standing behind her, so he too could get a nice long look at each of those photos. He contented himself by admiring the real person, who was sitting up straight and tall with their hair pulled into a high ponytail, giving the best view he’d ever had of their long, elegant neck, it’s dips and cords running down to the hollow of their throat. Ms. Device shifted, scooting to the edge of her seat to set the portfolio on the coffee table in front of them. She pointed at a picture. 

“This is the ad campaign that I saw that interested me in you. I like your vibe overall, and I especially like the androgynous feel in this one. Plus, I have a fondness for freckles, and like to have several models with them for our shows and such.” She smiled and gestured to her own tan skin with dark freckles. “Bit of a personal conceit. Going through your body of work, this,” she pointed to a different page, “is very much the sort of look we’re going for for the Spring line, and you really capture the aura I’m trying to project. I’ve been watching some of your recent work and you’ve been an excellent inspiration. I’ve already designed several things with you in mind. Our concept is Secret Witches, and that feeling of ambiguity and intrigue that you do embodies a lot of the aura I’m trying to create. And these and these looks are also on brand for the line in general. It’s hard to find a model who can pull true androgyny off. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you.” Crowley had a tiny crook of a smile, a small sardonic thing. 

“I’d like to put you in a few test garments from the workshop and see you walk in them.”

“Absolutely, anything you’d like, I’m here for.” They stood, paused and then tapped their portfolio, flipping to three other pages, marking each with a finger. “Real quick, nearly all of my later work that you’ve highlighted, plus these three shots, were all the looks that I’ve had arranged by one make-up artist, who did everything from concept art to hair styling.”

“Really?” Ms. Device said, clearly intrigued. She flipped through the three looks again, tapping her chin as she thought. “Who?”

“Newton Pulsifer. Tracy here has worked with him before, she can give you his contact information, if you’d like.”

“I would, thank you. Let me show you to the dressing room. I’ve already laid out a series of outfits, if you would put them on and then walk for me in each, please.”

They left, and when Anathema returned she pawed through the portfolio again, then chatted with Tracy and exchanged some business cards. After the first time Crowley came out, Aziraphale lost his discipline, slacking his stance and finding himself staring at their saunter, hips swaying back and forth hypnotically, their long legs completely bare sans a pair of red shorts that barely covered their bum. They had a black military style jacket on that made their shoulders and back look strong and sexy, with white lace trim and epaulettes, and they’d left their sunglasses off, baring those entrancing glowing eyes. The whole visage rather set Aziraphale’s heart to pounding, his body heating. Which would not do _ at all _ . Lecherous bodyguards were unemployed bodyguards. 

He turned away and watched the rest of the room, assiduously avoiding any further temptations to leer. He had to do something about his growing attraction, had to get rid of it, somehow. Anyhow. How did one do that, again? It was simply a crush on a very attractive person, surely he’d gotten over crushes before without making a complete fool of himself. He’d had crushes in the past, a few celebrities here and there, a few regulars at his bar, but no one he consistently— Oscar. Oh dear, he hadn’t thought about Oscar in a long time. That had been a complete nightmare. He rolled his eyes at himself. He’d made a huge fool of himself over Oscar. 

So maybe he hadn’t ever managed to before. He would… He would just have to keep things distant. Professional. Nothing too intimate, or relaxing. That was his plan, Aziraphale assured himself it would work.

But then, after it was all said and done with Crowley’s meetings and they got back in the company car, Crowley turned to them and said, “I’m hungry. Let’s grab dinner. I’m thinking… sushi.”

“Yes, sir. That sounds lovely. Do you have a place in mind or shall I choose one for you?”

“You pick. You’re the foodie, I’m sure you know all the best places, anyway. That went off rather well, and I’d like to celebrate.”

And oh, the world really wasn’t going to make this easy on him at all, was it? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s right, Aziraphale is a guardian in the legal sense as well! Ludicrously self-satisfied about the title using "model" in two ways. I am a simple writer, overly pleased by small joys. 
> 
> Did you catch the Utena references? I’m too queer to not sneak those in. Lemmi know if you did! ^_~
> 
> Next time, Sushi dinner date :D And let the pining begin!


	3. there's nothing we can do to them that they don't do to themselves

The sushi place Fell took them to was a small but swanky, the glitz more expressed through clean lines and sharp contrasts than gilding and crystal, an appropriate aesthetic that immediately impressed Crowley. They got a table for two, a cozy one off to the side. Crowley sat down and picked up their menu. As they scanned it they developed an itch between their shoulder blades, like someone was staring, only then noticing the silent stillness. They put down their menu and realized the other chair at the table was vacant. 

Surprised, Crowley looked around, finally finding Fell standing right behind them, of all places. 

“What. Are. You doing?” said Crowley, over-enunciating each syllable.

Fell blinked and looked down at them. “Waiting?”

“No. Just… No.” He was standing close enough that Crowley heard the man’s stomach growl. They answered with a snarl of their own, and they snapped, “I know you're hungry. I’m not a leper, it won’t kill you to have dinner with me.” 

“Oh! Oh, no, of course not.” Fell hustled to the other seat, quickly planting himself down on it and scooting in. “I apologize profusely if I made you feel that way.”

“What possessed you to think I’d want you to just stand behind me?” Crowley groused. 

“Ah. Well, you see the previous postings I’ve had as a personal bodyguard had that protocol. My apologies.” 

“What, were you working for the Protection Command, guarding diplomats?”

“No, nothing quite so fancy, just some private businessmen.”

Crowley gave the man an extremely dubious look. “Private businessmen,” he repeated, flatly. Who hired bodyguards to stand over them and watch their backs while they ate dinner? Did he used to work for the mob or something?  [1]

Fell smiled and nodded, taking Crowley aback, until they realized he wasn’t responding to the unspoken questions. They shook their head, banishing that line of thought, and went back to reading their menu. It all looked good, and they hadn’t had sushi in a long time. 

Their diet was terrible, mostly slapped together sandwiches, convenience store goods, and microwave meals. They knew next to nothing about cooking and had a low weekly food budget, but they still splurged on a nice restaurant every so often. Today was a special treat, a celebration of a job well done and an upcoming payout like they’d never seen before. 

The waiter returned and asked for their order. 

Crowley started, “I’ll have a carafe of sake and the Chef’s Special Selection.”

“Very good, ma’am. And for you?” The waiter turned to Fell. 

“Oh, nothing for me but a glass of water, thank you,” said Fell.

“What?” Crowley eyebrows flew up. “I thought we covered this already? Get something.”

Fell hemmed and hawed, avoiding making eye contact, and Crowley realized what the hang up was. Money. Everything always came down to money, didn’t it?

“You know what, it’s fine, it’s on me, so I’ll just order enough for both of us to share.” Crowley turned back to the waiter. “Bring two cups for the sake and make it a Chef’s Special Selection for two. I’m celebrating, so extra fancy, please.” 

The waiter dropped a polite assent, took their menus and left, during which Fell’s cheeks turned a delightful rose-kissed pink and he dipped his chin. Crowley realized they liked it, liked flustering the man. It felt… empowering, in a way. Fell looked back up at them and their eyes met, his now blue in the dim restaurant’s light. 

“Thank you,” Fell stated softly, his eyes shining.

Crowley cleared their throat. “Don’t mention it.”

Awkward silence descended, eventually chafing at Crowley enough to spur them into starting a conversation. 

“So, um. You,” Crowley gestured vaguely. “Tell me about you. Might as well use this as an opportunity to get to know one another. Especially since we’re supposedly dating and all, right? Get some practice in.”

“Yes, quite… Well, I work in security, obviously, though not always as a personal bodyguard. I also work as a bouncer for a nightclub in Soho and as a museum guard. Usually posted to the east wing of the British Museum, although I’ve surrendered most of those shifts to work this post.”

“A museum I can see, but… You? A bouncer for a nightclub?” They tried to picture it. The image that came to mind was Fell politely asking burly men in clubbing gear if they might kindly excuse themselves. It was ridiculous, there was no way. 

Fell’s lips quirked, the corners pulling up. “Yes, quite. You’re hardly the first, that’s a rather common reaction. I do wear a different costume for that job now, to project something closer to the right image. Not something I would choose, on its own, as you can imagine.” 

“This suit your usual fare?”

“I find myself most comfortable in formal wear, yes.”

“Is that why you’ve worn the exact same outfit two days in a row?”

Fell drooped. “You noticed. Of course you’d notice.”

“Yep. Fashion and styling is my job, and I’m good at my job.”

“I apologize, it's just that,” Fell fidgeted, wringing his hands, slowly looking more and more mortified. “Well… It’s the only suit I have that is appropriate. The only other one has patches.”

“That’s no good. No, if you show up in the same suit for my job it’ll make _me_ look bad.” Crowley tsked in annoyance and Fell looked increasingly humiliated, his eyes roving the room, anywhere but Crowley. No point in dragging this out. The man had what he had. “We’ll need to go shopping, get you some proper clothes. I’ll talk to Tracy, get the cost reimbursed later. I’ll arrange things tomorrow, we’ll go the day after.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to trouble you…”

“No offense, but I’m certain that I'm better at fancy clothes shopping than you, and if I take you, we’ll get more glam per pound. Who knows what sort of fashion faux pas you might unwittingly commit if I’m not there to stop you? Besides, it’s my image we’re maintaining, not yours. Think of it as uniform shopping, if it helps.” 

Fell tilted his head, a silent acquiescence. “Since we’re on that topic, would you tell me more about your line of work?”

“Sure. High fashion model, obviously. Do you know what the difference is between a commercial model and a high fashion one?” Fell shook their head. “Commercial models do things like clothes catalogs and TV ads. The everyday sort of model most people see around. The real fancy ones do things like Victoria’s Secret runways. High fashion is more about the couture and designer products, runway walking, working with designers, doing editorials. The sort of things that you don’t encounter much unless you’re in the industry to a degree.” 

Fell gave a thoughtful hum and finally made eye contact again with those pretty eyes, a genial tilt to his lips. Crowley felt themselves loosening up, looking forward to seeing more of the rich repertoire of smiles he had. They wanted to catalog them, little pictures in his mind of each one with a note: Bashfully thankful at dinner; Thoughtful and interested; Pleasantly surprised; etc. Learn how to elicit them on demand. 

“Yesterday was an editorial shoot, pretty typical day for that, though not nearly as hectic as usual and a bit smaller scale. My meetings today, also normal. I’m sure I’ll have many more like that, hopefully soon. Next week there is a show I’ll be walking for, though those tend to all clump together at certain times in the year. Generally, it’s my job to look amazing at all times, except when I’m around designers. Then I have to look like an amazing blank canvas.” They chuckled, pleased with their own joke. “There’s a lot more schmoozing in the industry than outsiders think. People seem to have the idea that all I do is stand around looking pretty, but it is a lot of work to keep up with all the trends, develop a sense of taste and style that will be accepted but not too much… People can see in the final product if a model was really putting themselves out there during a photoshoot. Being able to subtly emote with your whole body on command takes a lot of effort to master.”

“That is fascinating. From what I’ve seen, it seems an exhausting effort. So much… image management.” 

“You’ve got that right.” 

The conversation died down for a bit, during which the waiter arrived with their beverages. Crowley greeted them with excitement, quickly setting out the little sake cups and pouring them each a full one. 

“Cheers,” they said, holding up their cup. They were really looking forward to the warm burn of alcohol. They ran cold, and the flush of alcohol, the bloom of heat as it went down your throat was the best part for them. It was time to be warm and relaxed and finished. 

“Oh no, I really shouldn’t,” Fell demurred. 

“It’s fine! You parked in an overnight car park, you don’t have to drive soon, and you’re done with work, aren’t you? Just a few with dinner, nothing outrageous. Don’t leave a man to drink alone!” 

“When you put it like that, how could I refuse?” Fell looked up through his pale lashes and lifted his little cup. “Cheers.”

They clinked the rims of their cups. Fell sipped and Crowley tossed theirs back all at once, ending with a loud “Aaaah!” They poured themselves a refill. 

“If you, um, if you don’t mind me asking,” Fell said. He set his hands in his lap and slightly tilted his body away, looking even more non-threatening than his usual teddy bear countenance. “You just called yourself a man. Do you think of yourself that way, then?”

That gave Crowley pause, and they looked for any kind of sign that talking to Fell was a bad idea. None presented themselves, same as the last time when he’d asked about their pronouns out of nowhere, a very unexpected yet pleasant surprise. It had been a passing whim to answer that question truthfully, since it wasn't something they'd been asked before, an indulgence they still weren't sure was a good idea. It was dangerous, talking about this sort of thing, especially in more detail than just a word choice preference. Dangerous more than just in the job market— there were a lot of reasons the life expectancy of people who weren’t cis was only 30 years. Poverty was only one of them. 

“Figure of speech, mainly. I’m flexible on what people think of me,” Crowley said. A carefully constructed reply that they did their best to say as casually as possible. 

Fell nodded, and pierced them with an intense gaze. “I understand, and I appreciate that you trusted me enough to tell me, like you did before with your pronouns.” 

_So he’s thinking about that too, eh?_

Fell glanced away, but continued with gentle emphasis, “I know that talking about it can be a risky business, and I promise I will continue to use the utmost discretion. I would never out someone against their will, and vow not to mention that you’re genderqueer unless you say it’s alright.”

“Genderqueer? Who said I was genderqueer?” Crowley stiffened. Perhaps it was just the alcohol, but their cheeks warmed. They didn’t think they’d said so much this time. They were so careful, mincing words. He’d certainly said similar things to other people and no one else had zeroed in so quickly, managed to hit the nail on the head like that. It was a bit unnerving, like the man could just peel him open and look inside, gaze into them in a way they’d never been seen before.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was defaulting to the broadest term. Did you prefer genderfluid? Or am I just very wrong? Oh, I’m so sorry, I do apologize, I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous,” Fell spoke in a rush, nervously fidgeting with his chopsticks, his whole visage overflowing with sadness and remorse. 

“No, I…” Their heart skipped a beat, twisting inside them. It would feel so good, to finally talk to someone about this. They never had, not once, spoken to someone about these feelings, but the secret was out of the bag already, what was the point of trying to bury it again? Fell already figured it out. And he knew it was a big deal, he’d already offered copious reassurances. What would it feel like to just talk about it, out loud? They wanted to know. Worst comes to worst if it turned out he wasn’t trustworthy, Crowley could just fire him and never see him again. 

Having come to a decision, their body tensed, sensing the precipice they were about to step over. They opened their suddenly dry mouth to talk and nothing came out. With a grimace, they took a sip of water and tried again, working to talk around the nervous knot in their throat where their heart was lodged. 

“Genderqueer isn’t wrong, per se. I, um. I don’t know if genderfluid applies to me though, I, uh. Well, due to certain circumstances I don't really know where I fit in all that. Nothing quite seems to fit, and yet sometimes I think, oh girl is fine, or, no boy is fine, or all of it works, or none of it. So yeah. I, um. I honestly just don’t know.” 

“A bit agender, perhaps? Maybe genderfluid agender? Can one be genderfluid and lack a gender?”

“You are asking the wrong person, here.”

“Quite right, my apologies. I was thinking out loud. Best leave the speculating to you. It’s not like there’s any hurry to decide. It’s your choice, and whatever you land on will suit you lovely, I’m sure. Unless you’d prefer not to, nothing wrong with shaking it up either. Keep us all on our toes.” Fell’s face softened, the corners of his eyes crinkled in the warmest way. It melted something inside Crowley, and their heart dropped back down to it’s normal position, though it still drummed a nervous rhythm. 

They leaned back, sprawling more comfortably in their chair in false repose, and took another sip of their sake, a gesture which Fell mimicked. Crowley topped up their cups as they said, “Thank you,” and returned to their casual posture, one arm hooked over the back of their chair. 

“No thanks needed, I think, for basic courtesy.” 

Crowley snorted. There was nothing basic about this level of care and consideration. It was more than anyone had ever given them when they’d talked about this kind of personal issue, made them feel more known and accepted in such a short exchange than anyone else ever had. Not once did Fell recoil in disgust, get violent, or even just make awkward faces and ask weirdly probing questions about their genitals. “So how are you so familiar with all this stuff, anyways? Your average man off the street wouldn’t know the difference between genderfluid and genderqueer if their life depended on it.” 

“I um. Well, I’ve been involved with a queer charity for many years now, in one way or another, and that exposure and education drastically expanded my vocabulary. And I have two children in my care that are not cis, so that also made me more motivated to be well-read.”

“You’ve got kids? Wow.” Crowley internally revised his image of the man, who if he had kids old enough to be trans, was definitely older than they’d pegged him. Not too uncommon, especially in his line of work, but unexpected that a bodyguard would have such an effective facial skincare routine. Then again, the man’s cherubic countenance was certainly glowing and attractive, he must put _some_ work into maintaining it. “So are you married, then? Wife waiting at home?”

“Oh, no, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong idea. I’m gay. _Very_ gay.” 

“Husband then?”

“No. No, I’ve not had much luck in relationships, unfortunately,” he said with a chuckle, but his shoulders slumped.

“Single parent, that’s rough.”

Fell huffed a half-laugh. “Indeed. I do my best, and I’m not quite alone. I rent the bottom floor of a terraced house, and the couple who owns it helps quite a lot with childcare and meals and such. Their son is the same age as my wards and they’ve all made friends, which is a great help. We all just chip in together and it’s like having three parents for five children. One big family.” 

Crowley whistled. “That is big. Massive.”

Fell chuckled. “Quite. I hadn’t intended it to be that way, but there just kept being more homeless teens that needed a place to stay, and I couldn’t very well tell them no.”

Crowley blinked and narrowed their eyes. “Wait, you take in homeless teens? That’s the ‘kids’ you’re talking about?”

Fell cocked his head, eyebrows rising. “Yes?”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty four.”

“Wow. That must feel… I mean, no offense, but you’re not that much older than them, and teens… teens are hard to deal with. Isn’t that awkward for you? Don’t you feel more like an older brother? And like, weird to think of yourself as their parent?”

“Yes! Oh, you are so right! It _is_ strange for me. I feel more like I’m guiding them than in charge of them, but legally they’re my responsibility, and they are kids, so they’re _my kids_. But then I hear myself say that and it just boggles me a little sometimes. I feel more like their older brother, or a mentor, than a father to them. Well, except Pepper, I do feel a bit like a father figure to her. She and I have been together since she was thirteen and a feisty young thing. Now she’s so tall and grown up. And I suppose I feel most like Wensleydale’s uncle. He was my next, as a fourteen year old.”

“Next? How many strays _have_ you picked up?”

“Four, though I’m only the legal guardian of three at the moment.”

Crowley recoiled as if struck, so taken aback. They had thought most of the five aforementioned kids were the other family’s, but no, they were Fell’s. The man was taking care of his own little flock of teenagers and only a few years older than Crowley. They couldn’t imagine how much time and effort and work that was. No wonder he was worried about the cost of a nice sushi dinner. “Yeah, forget father figure. You’re like the guardian angel of homeless London youths.”

“Oh… that’s…” His face flushed beet red. He spoke in a near whisper. “How kind of you.”

Crowley snorted and crossed their arms. “I don’t think it’s kind of me, I think it's an incontrovertible fact. Anyone would think so.” They waved at Fell, gesturing at his body from top to bottom. “Just look at you. Halo of white curls, apple cheeks, radiant smile, here to lead lost children to safety. Angel, from top to bottom.” 

Fell squirmed, cheeks aflame and unable to make eye contact. Crowley grinned and swayed back and forth in their chair. It was fun to have such an effect on him. They tossed back another cup of sake, and refilled it. 

“It’s nothing so altruistic. My motives are selfish, in a way.” Fell sighed, clearly coming to some sort of decision and relaxing into it. He sipped his water and said, “When I said I’d been involved in queer charities, it’s because I was once a homeless queer youth myself. When I was fifteen my parents found out I was gay and kicked me out of their house. Which was a good thing I think, in the long run, but at the time I was rather distraught. I lived on the streets in Soho, trying to make my way in the world when someone who worked for The Rainbow Promise found me, and then the people there got me a mentor, got me food and a place to stay. They even helped me get a job. So all of the things I’ve done after have just been my way of saying thank you, of paying them back for all they gave to me.” 

Fell’s story struck a chord in Crowley, too similar to their own history, leaving them thrumming. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit here. One rescued teen for having rescued you is payback. Four is… four is _a lot_ . Four is determination, and dedication, and perseverance. I don’t think I could have done one, much less taken on _four_. You’re a very impressive man, Fell, and you’ve come a long way in a short time. You should give yourself credit for it.”

Fell pressed his palm to his heart and his lip trembled. “... Thank you.”

“I mean it, too.” Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the sense of lingering warmth, maybe it was the prior moment of trust and self-baring, but something in Crowley pushed him to open up about themselves. “I had similar circumstances as you did and you don’t see me taking in troubled teens. My parents found out about my, uh,” Talking about their gender identity was one thing, but Crowley didn’t want to share the rest even with the newfound sense of openness, so they continued with “... queerness they didn’t take it well. They wanted me ‘fixed,’ and told me I wasn’t good enough, that I was wrong, and pushed me to do things I didn’t want. When I looked back at the way they had always treated me I decided they were just shit parents all around, so I ran away. Landed on my feet though, since I had time to prepare, which is more than you had. I already had a job. Kept myself afloat for a year and then applied in the courts to become an emancipated minor, so they couldn’t come and try to force me to do anything ever again. Been living on my own since. Compared to you and your flock, I’ve barely done anything.” 

“No! No, it’s very impressive that you took control of your life and lifted yourself up and out of your unfortunate circumstances like that. Most commendable!”

Crowley laughed. “I wouldn’t say I lifted myself up by being a teen runaway. I was living in no-tell motels, so… More like I sauntered vaguely downwards. Still working on sashaying my way back up, out of the gutter.” 

Fell giggled, a beautiful bright thing that made something similar bubble up in Crowley’s chest. “An eloquent description, and apt, I’m sure. How about a toast then? To the gutters we’ve left behind?” 

“Absolutely! May they stay in the past.” Crowley lifted their cup and clinked it against Fell’s, who sipped his while Crowley tossed theirs back. 

They chatted lightly about anything that came to mind, and the warm sensation blooming across Crowley’s skin wasn’t only the alcohol. Fell was an avid baker, his last adventure being a bread pudding souffle. He also made an excellent tiramisu, according to him, and Crowley loved a good tiramisu. Crowley could cook eggs, and things that came with heating instructions, which got another giggle. Fell repeated that he could cook ‘respectably’ but not as well as he baked, which Crowley suspected meant the man was a good cook and overly modest. They both liked chocolate and strawberries but not raw carrots. Fell preferred bright colors, blues and whites and yellows; Crowley liked the dark and rich colors, wine reds, jewel purples and blacks. 

At some point, Crowley had started to truly relax and was going through their sake faster than was perhaps prudent. They’d never indulged to the point of being drunk in public, only in the privacy of their little flat, never really felt safe doing it. But they were here, and had a private bodyguard who had made it very clear that he would get them home safely, so when the first carafe ran dry they got another. Fell nursed his like he intended this cup to last the rest of dinner, rolling it in his hands as he talked more of what his favorite exhibits were in the British Museum (The Greek and Roman sculptures, because wasn’t it marvelous how soft they made stone look?). Crowley had never been, but loved to walk in the Royal Botanical Gardens, after they’d once had a shoot there, or St James and Crystal Palace Parks. Fell’s favorite season was spring and Crowley’s fall.

Their food arrived, served on a boat with tiers to display each of the different delicately handmade morsels, elaborately arranged. It was massive, taking up the majority of their little table, and looked fantastic. Crowley’s mouth watered and their stomach screamed it’s readiness, so they immediately grabbed a salmon nigiri and devoured it. It was everything they’d hoped, silken and tender and rich. They chased it with sake, and noticed Fell hadn’t started, his chopsticks hovering over the platter. 

“I hope I’m not going to have to cajole you to eat,” Crowley said.

“No, you’re safe from that fate. I’m just trying to choose where to start. There is quite the variety.” Glittering eyes finally landed on one of the maki, and he reached out and took a roll, primly dipping it in soy and setting it onto his tongue. He closed eyes and chewed, slowly and deliberately, when a moan escaped from deep in the man’s chest. 

Crowley’s stomach dropped out of them, their cheeks hot. They leaned forward, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, their own chopsticks drooping, forgotten, in their hand. 

_Maybe it was a mistake to be this soused,_ they thought as their body heated. 

Fell gave another long “Mmmm,” swallowed, and opened his eyes again, back from wherever the bite had taken him. “Oh, that is _scrumptious_. You must try some.”

Crowley’s mouth was so dry they had to clear it to speak. “What is it?”

“Fried oyster roll.”

“I’ve never eaten oysters before,” they replied, in a daze. 

“Oh, you are in for a treat! The crispy batter contrasts with the soft, salty flesh of the oyster as you sink your teeth into it, and the unctuous richness is complemented by the sweet tang of a pickled radish. If you like wasabi, I’d recommend just a dab, to give it a bit of punchiness in the fore-flavors,” he said. Spoken like a true foodie. 

A dopey smile came over them before they shook it off, sitting up straighter, but they did reach for that roll next. They followed Fell’s suggestions and tried it with wasabi, and it was fantastic in the ways Fell described, though it didn’t elicit moans like _that_ from them. 

“ ‘S quite good.”

“Indeed.” Fell picked a snapper sashimi, delicately dipping it in soy before he put it in his mouth. The same reaction followed, if a little less enthusiastic, and Crowley found themselves entranced, occasionally forgetting to eat between Fell’s bites. The whole meal went that way, Crowley thankful they’d left their sunglasses on, what with the way they stared. Fell luxuriated in each meticulously chosen and savored bite, and Crowley copied his choices, chasing the flavor and reactions, squirming a bit in their chair when Fell particularly enjoyed something. Occasionally Fell would give commentary, analyzing and complementing, which Crowley appreciated. They’d never really thought that much about food. They just ate so they weren’t hungry anymore. This was a very new and different dining experience. This was… This was perhaps the hottest, nicest date they’d ever been on. They didn't know it could be so nice, to just sit and enjoy good food with another person. To watch someone enjoy themselves so lasciviously. 

When the bill arrived, they tipped generously, head swimming with the memories of the evening, which they were already reminiscing about. They gathered their things, and Fell shot to his feet. 

“Let me, sir,” he said, and pulled their chair back as they stood, pushing it back in once they were out of it. “There we are. Shall we head out? Is there anywhere else sir would like to go this evening?”

 _Sir?_ It echoed in Crowley’s head, and they stammered out a reply. “N- no. Just back home?”

“Very good, sir.” He held his hand, beckoning Crowley to lead the way, and they did, Fell falling in a half step behind, his eyes glassy and fixed in the distance. There was no more chatting as they walked back to the car. Crowley glanced back from time to time, forehead wrinkled in confusion, but Fell didn’t meet their eyes, offering hollow smiles instead. 

Crowley didn’t understand the change until they remembered their own words.

_“Tell me about you. Might as well use this as an opportunity to get to know one another. Especially since we’re supposedly dating and all, right? Get some practice in.”_

The memory was like tossing ice water down their shirt. Fell had just been practicing, none of that was real. He’d made sure to mention more than once how much image management was involved in Crowley’s job, pointing out that he’d do his utmost to maintain a positive image for Crowley on several occasions. Dating the angel of London’s queer youth would certainly look fantastic on their resume; half the industry was gay or bi. Had he sat there and pitied Crowley, who was too stupid to notice when something was too good to be real, was so naive they fell for the facade? 

The ride back was quiet, stiff, the very air thick with it and Crowley was too drunk to bother concealing their frowns. They’d tripped on their own feet and had no one to blame but themselves. They got too wound up, too relaxed, too trusting. This was only what they deserved for it, after all. This was what you got when you opened up. 

Fell escorted them in silence to their door, giving them a concerned frown, but Crowley didn’t want to deal with it. This time when they were inside they didn’t bother to watch him walk away. 

* * *

It was fortunate that Crowley never got hangovers, a rare talent in someone as slim as them, but they still woke up with a mouth that tasted like they’d licked coal-ash out of a dead rat. Already not a morning person, they groggily slugged around their one-room flat, smacking their mouth as they waited for their coffee to brew. 

Sipping and moping, they stared out the window and recounted the previous days’ highs and lows. On the one hand, a likely successful meeting with a prospective employer who would vastly improve their personal brand, exposure, and bottom line. On the other, they were saddled with a bodyguard that tricked them into loosening up by being too good at being a fake boyfriend.

Yesterday was a neutral day, on average, they decided. Best to just put it out of their mind and move on. They slung back the last of their coffee to take their morning pills with, and set about the rest of their morning ablutions. It was probably a bad idea to mix the two without food, but Crowley’s stomach was a bit sour in the morning and they forgot when they didn’t take them first thing. Besides, they’d been doing it for five years now. Surely if there was a problem it would have come up by now. 

After a scalding hot shower they got dressed and logged in to their laptop. Time for work. Emails and DMs first, then more market research on Dior. Some of their men’s clothes would look fetching on Fell, though they didn’t think he’d go for the embellishing. They banished those thoughts, though they popped back up like weeds every time a waistcoat cropped up in their research. 

Just after noon their phone rang and they jumped. It was Newt, of all people. They answered.

“Hello, Newt, what can I do for you?”

“Crowley! What did you do?” a panicked Newt blurted out. 

“Hmm? What do you mean?” 

“I got a call from Dior, THE Dior, asking me to schedule an interview with one of their departments. Dior, Crowley. Why is _Dior_ calling me to schedule an interview?”

“Because they want to hire you. Obviously.” Crowley deadpanned. “I think if you say the word ‘Dior’ one more time you’ll summon them like a fairy. Are you looking in a mirror? That’ll speed up the process.” 

“ _Why_ ?” The man was begging for help, and doing such a good job of it he managed to condense several pleading tones into that one syllable. “I’ve never even worked with one of the major design houses, so why is one of the _flagship_ brands of _the world's largest luxury group_ calling _me_ for an interview. They said you’d recommended me to a position! Oh god, I don’t even know what position. I didn’t even take their call, it was from a blocked number. I only have their voicemail. I sent _Dior_ to voicemail, Crowley!” 

“Calm down, Newt, I’m sure it’s fine. I didn’t recommend you for a position, per se. I had a go see yesterday with them. Well, technically not with _them_ exactly. They’ve a new minor division, and I spoke with the head designer of it. She liked a lot of your work from my portfolio so I had Tracy give her your card. Nothing crazy, just regular old networking. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, that sort of thing. All very normal.”

“What new division?”

“Ko’ushichan Dior. All their branding has K.U.D. on it, I’ll text you some links. Shouldn’t be too hard to familiarize yourself with them, get through the interview process. I know you get really nervous with this stuff, but I’m betting you could probably even beg Tracy for a look at the dossier she’s made for me, you’ve certainly done her girls right over the years. It was really thorough, even had bios on current employees. Have you already booked your interview?”

“No. No, I was too freaked out, I called you first.” 

“... Probably a wise choice.” He was a nervous Newt, out of his pond, probably needed a drink and a calm down first. “Don’t let Dior wait too long though. I hope you get many excellent gigs from them.” 

“Right. Yes. Oh god, what if I fuck it up?”

“Then you’ll be no worse off than you are now, and you're doing good right now, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Right. Status quo maintained. Okay… Okay. Thank you, Crowley.”

“Good luck, Newt. Thank me again if you land the job.”

“I will. I will kiss your feet and grovel, even. _Dior_.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” They chuckled, said their goodbyes and hung up. If he was lucky they’d both be hired and Crowley would get a boatload of cash for their retirement account and a friendly face nearby. Newt was one of the closest things to a friend Crowley had because they could chat, though mostly all they talked about was work. 

Okay, so Newt wasn’t a friend, he was only a colleague. The kind you could take to a bar for a night, but still, just a colleague. It’s not like they had time to socialize! And what had it ever gotten them anyway? Nothing. Networking, now that was worth time. That literally paid off. Friends were just… a hobby, and one they’d not picked up. 

They dove back into their work, updating their professional social media accounts and replying to a few comments before checking on the fashion news. As the morning whiled away into the afternoon, they had this nagging feeling, like something was missing, and it was driving them crazy. 

They started writing a very thorough To Do list, writing everything they could think of just to make sure they weren’t forgetting any of their obligations. When they wrote:

> ☐ Expand Fell’s wardrobe: Talk to Tracey, get budget, go shopping. Friday? Today? Soon. 

They froze. There was the empty feeling. It was Fell. Again. 

They growled their aggravation out. There was no reason _at all_ that they needed to go shopping with the man today. Why were they even thinking that? They scoffed. Some stupid half-buried part of his brain wanted to see him, but that part had been tricked. They shouldn’t care anymore, any part of them. Tracy would fire him in a month or two when the bee got out of her bonnet and they could mourn his “breakup” with their coworkers, closing this chapter in their life forever. 

Slamming the backspace key, they removed the questions and left a definitive “FRIDAY” at the end. Crowley didn’t need this. Didn’t need anyone, much less to prop themselves up with a lie just to get through the day. They were doing spectacularly by themselves. 

Fresh air and getting out of this tiny concrete box is all they needed. They closed their laptop with a loud click and thrust it into their messenger bag, scooped up their keys and wallet, and headed out, locking the door behind them. They could keep working at their favorite diner a few miles away. They didn’t need an escort to go get an afternoon omelette. Tracy didn’t need to know they’d gone out alone, and they never would because nothing would happen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The Sergeant had a few “previous business associates” who wanted personal protection after Shadwell was running his own security company. Aziraphale had never much thought about why. WFA Services certainly never asked, as long as the pay was right. [Return from when ye came] 
> 
> Just because Crowley is a human doesn’t mean they can’t still be a gender-hoarder. They have all the genders and yet no gender!


	4. You just had to decide who your friends really were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter: mention of a possible suicide attempt (nothing graphic, it happened in the past and is off-screen)

Without any hours scheduled by Crowley or Ms. Potts, Aziraphale’s job today was just to be “on call” and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He had days off, technically— He had at least one shift every day but he worked only night shifts on Mondays and Saturdays, nothing during the day. So technically, he had those “days” off. But it was Wednesday, and so no bouncer duty this evening, and no shifts at the museum, no classes to teach, not even a meeting at the school or anything. 

It was a bit unnerving. He’d woken late, able to sleep in, and went inside to check on things, Warlock especially. Aziraphale was always a little extra worried about Warlock, since they’d met them while they were still at the hospital. The house had three floors, and the back door led into the Young’s kitchen in the middle floor. This kitchen was spotless, extra impressive considering it was a white and marble modern room. Off to the side was a large formal dining room with a chandelier and wooden paneling, and the foyer, also sporting a crystal chandelier, where the stairs both up and down were. Deidre was sitting at the kitchen island, sipping a mug of tea and reading on a tablet. She brightened as he entered, and Aziraphale smiled in return. 

“Good morning, Aziraphale. No work today?” she said. She set her mug down and started brewing another cup. 

Aziraphale sat down at the other chair in the breakfast nook. “On call.”

“That’s new. How does that work?” The water in the electric kettle was still steaming as she poured it over the teabag. 

“I’m to wait to see if I’m summoned for duty, so I am free to do what I’d like, as long as it isn’t something I can’t walk away from on short notice.” Aziraphale accepted his mug and tipped his head in thanks. Deidre returned to her seat, relaxing back as they talked. “The pay is the same for being on call for this posting as I earned at a day at the museum, at least. It’s a bit strange, to know I’m being paid right now, while I’m at home. I feel like I’m slacking off.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Aziraphale. You’ve got to learn to relax and enjoy a break when you get one.”

Aziraphale blew on his tea and took a speculative sip. “I suppose you’re right. How was everyone this morning? No issues getting to school, then?”

“No more than usual. Teens in the morning aren’t the most gracious of people. Bit of a scuffle over whose toast was in the toaster but that’s all.”

“Has Warlock surfaced today?”

“Not yet.” Warlock usually didn’t join everyone else for breakfast, and seemed to be on a more nocturnal schedule in general, though they were prone to bouts of sleeping at any point in the day. Some of that was likely physical recovery still, but the more likely reason was that they were very depressed. “I did get a call from the school this morning about them. All the paperwork cleared, and they’re good to start schooling with the rest of the lot. That is, if they want to. I don’t think any of us have managed to get Warlock to talk about what they want from their future. Not even Adam or the rest of the Them.”

Aziraphale sighed into his tea, watching the steam disperse and then continue to drift upwards. “That can be my goal for today, then.” It was hard to get Warlock to talk about themselves at all. They were very uncomfortable and fearful of others' reactions, though in the last few weeks they had started looking more comfortable here and specifically with Aziraphale. Deidre always said he just had an air about him, that he was safe and loving, and that it really helped, and in this instance it appeared she was right.

“Good luck, dear heart,” she said and patted him on the shoulder.

“Thank you. And I think I shall make lunch for us while I’m at it.” Aziraphale stood and took his tea downstairs with him, which was half underground, so all the windows were small and high up, and it was quite a bit cozier than the upstairs. The stairs led to a little living room, with a kitchenette beside it. The bottom floor wasn’t large, consisting of a living room, bathroom, a kitchenette, and two bedrooms, but it was enough for the kids. Everything was plain, from the walls to the furniture, and common areas were filled with shelves and shelves of his books. It was the only place left for his things, really, and the house was at least peaceful while school was in session. 

The door to Warlock and Pepper’s room was closed and quiet, so he didn’t bother knocking or anything in case Warlock was still asleep. The fridge and cabinets were stocked to the gills with food, though most of it was easy or quick snacks. The amount of food four teenagers needed was pretty unbelievable. Groceries was his biggest budget item after rent. With Warlock not eating well or enough, especially after the weight they’d lost in hospital, he’d been extra careful to keep it all topped up. 

On the fridge was a copy of the dinner menu for the week, and Aziraphale checked it to make sure he didn’t use any ingredients that were already allocated. They had a rotating schedule of who cooked what so everyone learned how to cook many different things and didn’t get overwhelmed with cooking for eight people by themselves. A large part of his guardianship was just preparing them to be on their own, teaching them what they needed to know to be self-sufficient adults. Tonight, Pepper was cooking mains and Adam was on sides— the menu was pork chops, broccoli, and mash— so Aziraphale started prepping peppers and onions to be caramelized for some sausage sandwiches. 

He hummed as he worked, thinking back over his week, especially his very delicious dinner last night. His mouth watered as he remembered the flavors, salty soy and savory fish, the tang of pickled ginger and spice of wasabi, all made more memorable and wonderful by the soft sighs and smiles of his dinner companion. They’d actually enjoyed Aziraphales running commentary, prompting him to talk more, not less about the food. That was a welcome surprise. Aziraphale wasn’t used to someone enjoying his epicurean tendencies, it was something he’d been teased about growing up. The part of the evening his mind lingered on the most was the way Crowley wrinkled their nose when they were being sarcastic, or perhaps it was the way they tilted their head when they were thinking hard. Both were very preoccupying. 

Aziraphale frowned, brought out of his dreamy reverie. What had happened on the way home to upset them? He wasn’t sure, but it had certainly put a damper on an otherwise lovely time. He’d thought Crowley was impressive before, but finding out that they were also a runaway and had been on their own from around the same age as Aziraphale and yet had accomplished so much, Aziraphale was in awe. Here he was, barely keeping his head afloat with three jobs. Aziraphale was probably older than them by a few years. Once Crowley was his age they’d probably be a multimillionaire, living in a penthouse in Mayfair, jetsetting to exotic locales, with magazines and TV shows begging them to put in an appearance. They were certainly gorgeous enough.

Would they still need a bodyguard? Could he at least watch over them in their stardom? Or would they be finished with him by then? 

Aziraphale shook himself. No need to worry about that, it was all out of his hands. He tossed everything in a skillet, set it to saute and pulled out his latest book, reading as he slow-cooked to keep his mind from wandering anymore. 

As he was plating up Warlock stuck their head out, rubbing sleep out of their eyes. 

“Aziraphale?” they asked blearily. 

“Yes, dear. It’s me. I’ve made some lunch for everyone, if you’d like to join me.” 

They grunted and headed off to the bathroom. Aziraphale ran Deidre’s portion upstairs to her, which she gratefully accepted, and by the time he’d settled himself with his own plate on the couch— they didn’t have space for a dining table downstairs— Warlock was out and about. They joined him with their own plate and for a while they ate together quietly. Aziraphale didn’t want to push them, and so waited for them to talk first. His patience was rewarded. 

“Are you home today?” Warlock asked while staring hard at their plate. 

“I’m on call with my work, which means they can call me in if they need me, but otherwise I’m free. Considering it’s nearly two o’clock I doubt I will be needed today.”

They returned to eating in companionable silence. When they were nearly done, Aziraphale said, “I have something I need to ask you to think about and get back to me.”

“The clothes shopping stuff?”

“Oh yes, that too, my dear. I also need to know if you’d like to go to school and finish your A levels. You can, if you’d like.”

That surprised Warlock. Their eyes widened and they froze in the middle of chewing. They slowly resumed eating, shooting sideways glances at Aziraphale as they did. 

“You don’t have to, of course.” Aziraphale rushed to reassure. He didn’t like the almost suspicious glances he was getting. “You’ve finished your compulsory education. If you’d like to be done with school forever, that is a fine choice that I will support. If not, Deidre and I have made arrangements for you to attend the same school as the rest of the kids.”

The now-heavy silence dragged out well beyond the end of their meal, as Warlock hunched over and fidgeted with their empty plate. Aziraphale decided it was best to give them time and space, and took their dishes to the sink to wash them. No one knew how fragile Warlock was, and they all suspected the answer was very, so Aziraphale tried his best to tread very lightly with them. Warlock had only been at the shelter run by the Rainbow Promise for two days when the poisoning had occurred, and no one knew how it had happened. It was a combination of a lot of alcohol and paracetamol, so it could have just been a careless accident. They all suspected it was intentional, though, which is why Aziraphale had gotten involved. Warlock needed the love, care, and personal attention they couldn’t get at a shelter. God forbid it was intentional and they tried again.

“Aziraphale?” Warlock said, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Yes, my dear?” He put away the dishes and dried his hands off, having finished the washing up before he got lost in thought, and stood in the doorway to the living room. 

“I don’t want to go to school like this,” Warlock said. They wouldn’t make eye contact, instead staring at their own lap, where they clenched and unclenched their fists. 

“I’m sorry, my dear one. I didn’t know us doing that would upset you. Of course you don’t have to. We’ll explore other options for you.”

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t want to go. Like. This.” They punctuated their last two words by beating their chest, hand splayed open. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like it. I’m not comfortable like this. I don’t want to be this way.”

Aziraphale paused, pensive. He chose his words carefully, trying not to reinforce the idea that there was anything that needed fixed. He wanted to help Warlock feel more self-confident, not feed into any insecurities. “Is there something that would make you more comfortable?”

Warlock mumbled barely audibly, “I wanna be a girl.”

“Oh. Okay.” Aziraphale sat down with her on the couch and smiled. She was opening up, finally. This was something he was more familiar with. “We can do that.”

Warlock’s head whipped up. Her eyes were wet, but her mouth dropped open. “What do you mean, ‘We can do that’?” 

“If you want to be a girl, then you are a girl. I know it’s not always that simple, but here, with me, it is. Do you still want us to call you Warlock? Is there another name you’d prefer? And if you don’t like how you present, we can change that to something you’re more comfortable with. That’s not a problem.”

“It’s not?”

“No, of course not.”

“You’re not upset?”

“No! Goodness, no. You can be whatever you like, it’s not going to bother me, and I’ll support you regardless. I’m here for you, to help you get whatever it is you need and keep you safe.. Besides, this isn’t even that surprising. We had an inkling when we took you in, we just weren’t sure. Have no fear, my dear, you be whoever you want to be.” 

The tears that had been threatening finally overflowed, and she hurried to wipe them away, but it was clearly too much and too many to control, despite her efforts. She gave up and wrapped her arms around herself, shaking.

“Would you like a hug?” Aziraphale asked gently.

She nodded, so he drew her into an embrace, her head tucked under his chin. She cried for a while and he waited it out, rubbing soothing circles on her back as she did. After she had calmed down they talked about details: what kinds clothes she wanted (new ones from the women’s section, but nothing froo froo), if she wanted a new name (not right now but maybe one day), if she wanted the rest of the family to know (she did, once she was promised they would be as good as Aziraphale about it), if she wanted to talk to a doctor about medical treatments (yes, very much so, but she was scared to bring it up with them). She didn’t know that Wensleydale was also trans and telling her about that process they’d already been through seemed to assuage a lot of her fears.

While they were still talking the Them arrived home from school, turning the house into a loud and busy place, so Aziraphale and Warlock went to her and Pepper’s room to start to make a list of things she’d need so they could go shopping for them when they went clothes shopping that weekend. It turned out that the reason she’d been running away from her therapy appointments was that her bringing this up in therapy while still in her parents home had triggered the series of events that led her to being homeless, which she still didn’t go into much detail, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to pry. He reassured her that the schools and doctors they dealt with had been chosen specifically because they were good with LGBT kids, and that all the Them were queer, so she’d fit right in. 

When dinnertime rolled around they all piled upstairs, sitting around the Young’s massive dining room table. 

“Before we begin I have an announcement, everyone,” Aziraphale said. Warlock bit her lip and stared at her fork. “Warlock is a girl.”

A chorus of Alrights and Okays and one “Got it” from around the room answered his proclamation, several of the kids nodding as well. 

“That’s all. Bon appetit!” said Aziraphale. Everyone started dishing out and passing bowls, talking animatedly as they did so. Warlock looked stunned, nearly dropping the plate of pork chops as it was passed to her. Dinner commenced, with the teenagers vacuuming huge portions of food up while they chatted, the adults less animated but joining in enthusiastically. Everyone talked about the day in between mouthfuls, everything the same as usual. They broke and the two assigned dish duty for the day cleaned up (Arthur and Brian today), while the rest adjourned to other activities. As the evening wore on Warlock’s shock wore off and she seemed to relax, talking animatedly with Pepper and Wensleydale, even getting pulled into playing one of their video games together. 

Aziraphale’s phone buzzed. It was a notification of an email from Ms. Potts. He opened it.

> _ Crowley, I’ve got a contract hashed out with K.U.D. I think you’ll be pleased with it, though there is one sticking point we need to talk about in person. Too complicated for email. Meet me at my office at 2:00. I’ve gone ahead and cc’d your bodyguard so they know when to pick you up.  _

He went ahead and set his alarms so he’d be by Crowley’s flat before one tomorrow, and returned to enjoying the company of his lively family.

* * *

Their bodyguard arrived promptly at 1:00, as expected. 

They weren’t going to think of him as Fell anymore, because he was, first and foremost, just their bodyguard. It wouldn’t do to forget that again. They’d been ready to go when he arrived and knocked on their door with his blue eyes bright and a smile on high-beam. Crowley had just grunted, gathered their bag and left, which toned down the smile but didn’t otherwise disrupt it as they went. He just seemed in a very good mood all around, and even London daytime traffic wasn’t enough to touch it.

His stupid infectious grin was even starting to make Crowley feel a bit buoyant. No, couldn’t be that, it would be stupid of them to care how their bodyguard felt. It must be the impending work contract that was vastly bigger than anything they’d ever had before that was doing it. 

Although the more Crowley thought about that, the more butterflies seemed to hatch in their stomach, and the squirmy, fluttery anxiety wasn’t at all nice. They arrived at the agency early, and had to wait in reception for Madame Tracy to finish up some other meeting. Crowley sprawled in one of the chairs and their bodyguard stood in the empty space between it and a large ficus, instead of one of the five other chairs lining the walls. 

Crowley waved their hand in annoyance, vaguely gesturing downward and said, “Sit.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, and immediately sat down on the floor, apparently taking the gesture as more of a literal directive than it was intended. Crowley’s eyebrows shot up and their eyes widened, though no one would be able to see that as they were safely shielded behind their oversized sunglasses. Something inside them sparked. Fell had just… obeyed so readily, and now he was sitting there, on the floor, ramrod straight and proper in a suit, staring vaguely in the distance. Like he was a doll, just waiting to be played with. Something about that set off a smouldering sensation in them, made them feel… something. It wasn’t a feeling they were familiar with, but they liked it. Made them wonder what else would he obey, just like that?

“Crowley dearie! Thank you for waiting, I’m all done now. Come on in,” Tracy said, startling Crowley from their thoughts. She was standing in the doorway to her office, apparently going for a twiggy look today, as she had a long blonde wig on and that iconic thick mascara look around an otherwise neutral palette on her face. Her clothes were very mod, a fawn one piece with a thick black belt and very straight lines. Overall it made her look old-fashioned but still stylish, and was more her typical vibe. 

Crowley levered themselves up and said to their bodyguard. “Stay.”

Their bodyguard glanced at them and gave a small nod before returning to their stare.

“Oh, none of that! Bring him in, I’ll make you both a nice cup of tea,” said Madame Tracy, waving them in before disappearing into the back. 

To Crowley’s immense satisfaction, Fell didn’t move until they said, “Fine, you can come in.” Only then did he stand and follow them into Tracy’s office. They threw themselves sideways into the chair in front of her desk, their legs dangling over one of the arms and glanced at the pile of folders scattered across her desk. None of them were readily identifiable, so they gave up and waited for her to toddle back in with two steaming cups in hand.

“I wasn’t sure how you took it, so I’ve put just a bit of milk and sugar in yours,” she said as she handed their bodyguard a cup, “and I know you like just a hint of sweet in yours, love,” and handed the other to Crowley. 

“Thank you, Ms. Potts, that was very kind,” said their bodyguard. 

“Tracy. Call me Tracy. I feel like I should be a singing teapot in a Disney movie when people use my last name.” That earned a chuckle from their bodyguard. “Alright, dearie, let’s get down to business. After our go see on Tuesday K.U.D. has firmed their offer. They’re rather enamored with you and want you as their brand’s muse. This translates into you putting in almost weekly appearances at their workshop for fittings or style consultations or to sit in with their designers as they work. Mostly as a living hanger, you know the drill with that, though I know you’ve never worked very closely with a designer, much less a design house. The contract for that, since it’s a large time commitment, is fairly good, if I do say so myself, and gives a day rate for each appearance of a thousand, plus take-homes and a guaranteed position in all of their runway shows for a year, each paid, including a joint one with the main Dior house.”

“Wow. That’s big.” And a great opportunity. Walking in a division was one thing. Walking for the main brand was another. 

Tracey nodded as she shuffled through the paperwork, pulling out a staples print out and flipping through it as she talked. “Yes. There are also several ad campaigns in the works for their upcoming lines, and although you’re not guaranteed for those photoshoots, Anathema says it’s highly likely they’re going to want you for most of them, and those all come with a five-figure payout, to be negotiated later. One per season with an extra Christmas time special.”

“You’re really selling me on this, but you already told me there was a complication, so… What’s the catch?”

Tracy pressed her lips and clicked her tongue, “Right. So. The sticking point is that Anathema wants to have carte blanche to cut your hair or otherwise change you into a different look whenever they want. There’s no deal if you want to stay as you are.”

“That’s not so unusual. Is she talking bald or something?”

“No, though she might be talking down to pixie, which is a lot harder of a sell on a face like yours, so it could cut into any other offers I might be able to land you, and carte blanche is exactly that. Your red hair is a bit of a selling point and she could decide to change its color, too. Mr. Morgenshtern specifically is not going to be happy if your look changes very much, and is likely going to not want to take you as a muse as well when that happens. Taking this offer is likely to negatively impact how many offers we get in the future from him. Sorry love, I don’t think I can land both for you because this is an absolute for K.U.D., though who knows, maybe he will like whatever Anathema does to you and it’ll be fine.”

Crowley harrumphed. “Knew it was too good to be true. ‘S fine. Since you’re pushing K.U.D. I take it theirs is the more lucrative offer?”

“Theirs has a bigger guaranteed bottom line, and I think you’ll land all the shoots, so I think overall likely to be more profitable as well. Though Mr. Morgenshtern’s offer is larger looking at first glance, it has more vagaries written in, plus he wants exclusivity if you sign a long-term contract with him. His contract would be less of a time commitment on your part, but has no set dates you’d be paid, so could end up dragging out. All of this to explain why, yes, I recommend you go with Dior.”

“Right. I trust you Tracy, and that all sounds very reasonable. Where do I sign?”

She passed over the documents she was holding and a pen, pointing out everywhere that needed initialed and signed. They did, and she got out more paperwork, more signing, and then pulled out their allocation paperwork for future payments and went over that with them. Tracy was a very good agent, and had seen too many models burn bright and hot and then end up with nothing, so she insisted on all of her girls setting up retirement accounts that they paid into at least a little, and helped to set up other investment accounts to help pace the erratic payouts of this industry. It was one of the things Crowley loved about her, because they were obsessed with saving their money for emergencies, as they’d already had several, and did not want to suddenly find themselves with no marketable skills and out of the industry with a barely full checking account. Nearly everything they earned went to one investment or another, if not into savings. Tracy was very adept at money managing and had offered invaluable advice. Deciding which of their investments would get the bulk of promised future payments took a lot longer than deciding to take the contract. 

“You really should up your personal allowance and move out of that dreadful little flat. This is a nice, stable income this time. You can afford it.” She said. She’d disliked where they lived the moment she found it out, but they’d been there since they moved out of motels and it was stable, if nothing else. Stability wasn’t really something that was easy for them to acquire, and they were reluctant to lose it, even if it was a shitehole. 

“Once the money actually comes in I’ll consider it. I don’t want to get dropped after only a year and then have to downgrade,” they said.

“Speaking of next year, this is a lot of high profile shows you’re going to be in. It’s going to get your face out there, and also, you’re very likely to be interviewed a few times. So now is the time for you to learn other media skills and start to branch out, if you can. You know as well as I do that the days of the supermodel are waning and the only way to advance after a certain point is to develop other media skills. First things first, you’re going to need to practice your interviewing skills, since those are likely to happen soon. In addition, you’ll want to try the other side of the mic as an interviewer and see if you can develop any skills as a presenter. That’s one of the most common tracks to move into, though with your face that’s less likely than a more commercial model. Acting is the more likely market move, so you’ll need to learn and practice that. You could certainly be marketable as a themfatale, with those looks, especially after the sort of things I think Anathema is going to add to your portfolio, so you’ll want to pick up some action movie skills as well, if you can. Maybe learn a martial art. Practice emoting on film. Maybe try Shakespeare. All the good actors can make Shakespeare compelling.”

“I’m going to have to think about that some. I’ve not, before, though I think your advice is spot on the money. We can’t all be as lucky as Jessica Stam is.” 

“That’s the truth. Do you have any acting experience?”

“No.”

“Ok, then we’re definitely putting you in classes. A lot of classes. And I’m getting you a vocal coach. That way we can get professionals to assess where your talents lie, make sure we’re not running down dead ends.”

“Whoo-ee.”

Madame Tracy rolled her eyes, not appreciative of their sarcasm. “It’s a good career investment, though it does mean you’re about to become busier than you’ve ever been. Give me a few weeks and I’ll have all the details hashed out and email them to you.” Crowley flashed her a thumbs up. “Is there anything else we need to cover?”

“Yep,” they said, popping the P. “My bodyguard only has one outfit, and he’s wearing it every day.”

“Oh.”

“Ye-p.”

She addressed their bodyguard directly, leaning a bit around Crowley to do so, as he’d maintained a place near the door. “Do you know much about fashion?”

Before he could respond Crowley spoke, “No, he doesn’t. I asked when he told me it was his only suit. I’ve got a few places in mind to take him, get a few things to fill out the wardrobe. He’s representing me and my image, after all. If you’ll reimburse me for it?”

“Of course, that sounds reasonable. I’ve seen your own books, you know how to shop. Not like a lot of these models out here, paying full price for designer so they look like they get better swag than they do. Don’t go too crazy, and I’ll send you some suggestions I give to the male models I represent when they start out.” 

“Right. That’ll be my tomorrow, then.” 

They wrapped up everything else and then they were off, bodyguard in tow. Crowley didn’t get to be a stylist for anyone but themselves, so they were looking forward to playing around with a different aesthetic. Which was their only interest. They definitely were not excited to play dress up with a cute blonde they fancied. That wasn’t it at all. Fell was just a doll they were going to put together. A mannequin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, the double-edged power dynamics are really starting up. :D Yummy. 
> 
> Next week: second dates and shopping trips


	5. Chapter 5

The day was obnoxiously bright and cheerful, the cool spring giving way to the heat of the summer and baking the city. The heat was nice for Crowley, since as thin as they were they always ran cold, but they could do without the hot concrete smells and sweating that came with it. They dressed for the weather — a black sleeveless crop top with a boat neck and high-waisted short shorts, though they kept their accessories to a minimum, just some pointed dark green nails and strappy platform heels with plenty of support— and had their shopping itinerary all planned out on their phone. Madame Tracy’s suggestions had been excellent, and they’d be going to a lot of places. 

Their bodyguard was punctual at ten in the morning, but had visible dark circles under his eyes. Perhaps he hadn’t been lying about working as a bouncer. This was the earliest in the morning they’d ever seen them and it appeared to be a bit of a struggle, if the yawns he stifled were anything to go by. He was such a big softie, and Crowley was a little disappointed in themselves for feeling happy to see him. 

They reached their first destination without incident, a store that specialized in off-the-rack suiting recommended by Tracy. It was a warehouse style store, with long aisles of merchandise, and wasn’t a place Crowley had been aware of. They took in the layout and contents, and decided this store was for basics only: shirts and pants. First things first, they needed to know his sizes. Everything else would build from there. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know your measurements, would you?” they asked.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said. His eyes were roving and he fidgeted with his hands. His tongue darted out, moistening his lips and he spoke, “I’ve never shopped somewhere this fancy before.”

Crowley squinted and looked around at the nearly undecorated building, it’s exposed metal struts, utilitarian lighting, and complete lack of attendants. They raised one eyebrow as they said, “This isn’t fancy. Decent stuff, yeah, but nothing to write home about.”

Fell lowered his eyes, a dusting of pink blossoming near his ears. It was cute, but why was he getting bashful… Oh. Crowley relaxed their demeanor, feeling a little guilty for embarrassing him. There was nothing shameful about being poor, and they hadn’t meant to imply otherwise. Hell, Crowley was still pretty poor, and even though they knew lots of great places to shop they still couldn’t afford to buy much. “Right. Well. You’ll just have to look forward to getting even nicer things at our next stops, won’t you?” They flashed a wide, toothy grin, and his bodyguard coyly smiled back.  Crowley continued, “First we need to take your measurements. It’s best done with as few layers on as possible, so let’s head to the changing rooms and get you down to skivvies.” They marched off, secured a changing room, and held the door open for Fell, who was eyeing it rather than walking through, slowly turning red. 

“...Do I really have to undress down to undergarments, sir?”

Crowley felt their own face heat. Shit! Here they were telling someone who worked for them to strip. They’d been in the industry too long and forgotten that for most people, standing around in your underwear wasn’t a normal part of their job and was usually a big deal. They were so used to it, taking measurements in a bra and underwear was just in a day’s work as a model, they didn’t even give it a second thought. They had been a total asshole, telling him to strip out of the blue. Especially considering the man's unquestioning obedience yesterday. They were inconsiderate and horrible, accidentally taking advantage like that.

They stumbled over their own tongue rushing to reply, garbling a string of consonants before managing to babble, “Ngk, ah, I am, I’m sorry. That was, uh.” They held their hands up in supplication. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I just need to take mostly accurate measurements. You don’t… I wasn’t thinking. You’ve seen it, it’s just a day’s work for me you know? Being in my underthings around people. Sorry. Sorry, you don’t need to, I should never have said to, um, I can just just measure over everything—” 

Their bodyguard put a hand on their shoulder and looked up at them with a small smile (in their platform heels they towered almost a head taller), effectively quieting them with those soft hazel eyes. “It’s quite alright, no harm done. You’re right, I have seen your line of work, it’s understandable.” He gave them a final pat, stepped into the changing room, and started unbuttoning his jacket. “I’ll just remove the outer layers, if that is adequate?”

“Yeah, yup, perfectly adequate. I’ll just, uh…” they pointed awkwardly over to where the tri-fold mirror was with both hands. Fell didn’t even bother to close the door as he removed his jacket. Crowley swallowed hard and left to go stand near the mirror. They dug around in their bag and fished out the measuring tape and pulled up a note on their phone, prepping it to write down their bodyguard’s measurements and then stared at it. After a few moments they heard the rustle of clothing behind them and turned to find their body guard had joined them wearing his shirt and slacks. 

“Right. Right. Let’s start with the easy one you probably know. How tall are you?” they asked.

“Five ten.”

Crowley nodded and typed it in. “Okay. Next is neck width. If you wouldn’t mind loosening your collar I can take it flat against your neck, but it’s fine if you don’t, I'll measure over everything.”

Their bodyguard undid the top two buttons of their shirt, exposing the hollow of their throat as they pulled their shirt away from their neck. The ridge of his collarbones peeked out from behind the edges of his shirt and Crowley lifted their hands and hesitated. They licked their lips and looked at the man’s face. He looked nothing but curious, waiting. They gently threaded the tape around his neck, pulling it snug to get his measurement, which caused their fingers to brush up against the warm expanse of skin. 

“17 inches.” _ That’s rather thick _ , they thought as they noted it down. “Chest circumference next, if you could raise your arms out please?”

His bodyguard lifted his arms as if asking for a hug, and it embarrassed Crowley by how they reacted, leaning in a little and … wanting one. Their cheeks heated. What was wrong with them? Unfortunately, there was no way to wrap a tape measure without wrapping their own arms around him, and they felt like that was a bad idea given their increasing desire to do so. They’d already acted inconsiderate enough, no need to add any other sins to today’s count. “Can you, um. Can you wrap this around you, under your arms? Make sure it stays flat, doesn’t get twisted.”

He obeyed and held the ends out. They took them, wiggling them so that the tape was in the correct position for measurement, and pulled it till it was flush against his body. 40 inches, thick again. Next was his arm length and waist circumference, which they got themselves and both were normal, but then what was left was hips and inseam. They just ended up staring at the man's trousers, flustered and feeling their blush deepening with every passing moment. 

Fell cleared his throat, and it jerked Crowley’s attention back to the man’s face. “May I lower my arms?” 

“Oh, yes, sorry, sorry. Yes. Sorry.” For someone’s sake they were making a fucking fool over themselves. If they could just stop wanting to touch him this would all be a lot less awkward. He just looked so soft and huggable and it was driving them to distraction trying not to think about how it would feel to press their hands into him. It would probably be marvelous to wrap their legs around him and— no, no, that was an entirely inappropriate thought. Nip that right in the bud.

“Is there a problem?” Fell asked. 

“I um. I need to take measurements for your trousers but uh,” they gestured vaguely at the man’s hips and legs, “With the tape and, just, you know? I don’t want to, ah, invade your… personal space.” 

The tension Fell had melted as he softened, stepping close. So close, they could almost feel the heat of his body. Then he put a hand on their arm—  _ on their arm _ — and patted their bicep. “That’s very kind of you, to be concerned for me. You are doing me a great service by helping to outfit me, as well as using your expertise for my benefit. Please, don’t fear. I am not bothered at all, and consider myself lucky to be in the care of such a professional.”

“Professional. Service. Care… Right… Right, that’s me.” 

_ Get your shit together, you stammering imbecile! He’s treating this as a professional interaction, okay? No matter how hot and bothered you get he’s a co-worker who wants nothing to do with you beyond the job. Get over it already and act like a professional!  _

They knelt in front of him, reaching around to draw the tape around his body and settle it across the widest point of his hips and bum, and did not think about how plush that bottom was once, even after writing down the measurement that was notably higher than his waist’s. Last was inseam and they begged Jesus, Mary, and anyone else who was listening to please make sure they didn’t bump anything while taking that measurement before hesitantly raising the tape measure to the man’s crotch. When they got it and turned away to record it their breath whooshed out and they hadn’t even realized they had been holding it. They took several steps away, putting as much distance between them as possible.

“Okay, finished with measuring, I’ll just go get some things for you to try. Just… wait here, I’ll be right back,” and they fled. 

They hid their face in a rack of jackets on the other side of the store and growled at themselves. They had to be beet red, the amount of heat that was burning their face. Making a fool of themselves over their bodyguard. 

“Don’t be an idiot. Be professional. It’s just work. This is just work. An assignment to satisfy Tracy so she’ll keep being an excellent manager and agent. That. Is. All. He’s just a colleague, he’ll be out of your life soon enough. Get your shit together, Crowley,” they lectured themselves then straightened up and slapped their cheeks, trying to banish their flush. They went to the shirts and pulled one that had the right measurements, then to trousers and grabbed the most basic tan slacks of the right size. They returned and handed them to their bodyguard. 

“Try these on and let me see the fit, we’ll adjust from there,” they said. He nodded and went into the changing room, closing the door this time. 

A few moments passed and then he said, “Oh dear.”

“Problem?”

“Yes.” His bodyguard said, and opened the door. He was standing there in the trousers but not the shirt, instead just his vest covering the top of him. Crowley could see the entirety of man’s collarbones now, the harsh line of them contrasting with the soft curves of his neck and shoulders, a light dusting of chest hair underneath them clearly visible, hinting at what was under that vest. Their breath caught when they saw all the exposed skin of his completely bare arms—thick, strong looking arms.

Crowley swallowed. “Guh.”  _ Real smooth and Professional, you are. _

“The trousers were fine, but I’m afraid I can’t fit my arm into the sleeves of this shirt,” he said, demonstrating the problem with a pout. The sleeves hitched on the thick swell of his biceps, unable to go farther up his arm. 

“Ah. I’ll uh. I’ll get a larger size then.” So they left, scraping their scattered thoughts back together and slamming the lid shut on any urges and  _ feelings  _ that had arisen. They got two sizes, both larger and returned, handing them over. Their bodyguard returned to their changing room with them, and the rustle of fabric was the only sound as he changed. He exited fully dressed again, and this helped Crowley maintain what little professionalism they’d managed. 

The neck and sleeve fit was correct, but the chest and waist was all wrong, much too baggy, even though he’d tucked it in it just looked sloppy. Crowley sighed. “This is the size we’ll need for you, but I’m afraid your shape is not suited for the standard off-rack sizes. All your shirts are going to need to be tailored or you’ll just look a mess. At least the slacks work, I think. Turn for me?” He did. “Yeah, those will do. Okay, out of that and then we go to the racks.” 

He changed back to his normal clothes, and they went out to the shirt section.

“Okay, what kind of colors do you feel most comfortable in? I know I’m the stylist here but it’s still your wardrobe so I’d like to stick with things you prefer.”

“Well, I try to stick with things that go with my tartan,” he said, touching his tartan bowtie.

Crowley wrinkled their nose, “Why? Tartan is so… “

“Tartan is stylish.”

“It’s really not.”

“... Perhaps not.” He pouted. When he spoke again it was a soft-spoken but passionate confession. “But this is  _ my  _ tartan, for my family, and it means a lot to me, symbolically. So I like to wear at least a little of it every day, to remind myself that I  _ have  _ a family, even if they’re not the one I was born into.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s eye prickled. That was so touching it almost hurt. No, it did hurt, poking them right in the gaping wound that was their own lack of family and making them ache with the emptiness of wanting one. “That’s a… Alright then. I’ll treat it like a signature piece for you. Can I see your tie?” 

Their bodyguard deftly removed it in one pull and handed it over, which was shockingly hot to watch. Something was definitely wrong with them if they were getting turned on by a bowtie, so they stared at it in their hands until they had returned their scattered thoughts back to the task at hand.

Crowley held it up against the racks, comparing colors as they walked down the aisles, occasionally pulling a shirt and handing it to their bodyguard. They did the same as they went down the trouser aisles, and returned to the changing room. 

“Try everything on and show me each thing that fits,” they said.

“Yes, sir.”

So began a parade of pastels and neutrals, some rejected and some accepted. The shirts always were too baggy in the torso, the trousers always looked really good on his plush bottom, hugging it’s curves just enough to tantalize. It was a relief when they finished trying things on and instead Crowley could just look at clothes on hangers and price tags and pick out the basics they’d need. 

They paid and left, moving on to the next store, a boutique Crowley had shopped at before who specialized in fabric patterns and textures, a rare kind of store, but they had a good business in ties and men’s accessories. Crowley waved off the attendant, preferring to browse themselves. They started with the waistcoats, again holding up the tartan bow tie they hadn’t given back yet to find things. By this point they had relaxed into the work and started talking to themselves as they browsed, giving a running commentary of each of the colors and textures that they liked and didn’t and why. Their bodyguard trailed after them, slowly gaining another armful of potentials, and occasionally hummed or nodded along to Crowley’s monologue.

“Well, that’s all the waistcoats, and I think the three piece look suits you, but it’s probably a good idea to have a patterned shirt as well,” they walked down an aisle with shirts, “none of these are going to work though, all their collar tips are long and pointed, that’s too bad, those don’t work as well with bow ties. And I don’t suppose we need to even bother looking at any ties of any kind if yours is your signature piece, though maybe a pocket square or two? Would that be too much? It would look nice if it was subtle…” They wandered past the ties to the pocket squares and grabbed a few that were appealing, in rich reds and purples and blues, then exclaimed when they found a cream one with a thin rainbow border running along the edge. “What do you think? Too gay? Might be nice to have a bit of pride out?” 

“It’s nice.”

“Yeah, I like a subtle nod. Definitely this one. Not sure about the rest because they might draw too much focus—” and on they rambled as they finished going over the store. Finally, they finished and shoved their body guard in a changing room with instructions to show them each item that fit, though Crowley kept the pocket squares. 

When he came out wearing the first waistcoat, a silver and sapphire paisley print, their mouth lost all it’s moisture and words fled. It fit him perfectly, hugging his waist and the curve of his spine, showing off all the soft slopes that he possessed. It had a silken sheen to it that just begged to run your hands down it and grab at the plump flesh underneath. 

Crowley shook their head, trying to banish that line of thought. They looked up and found their bodyguard checking himself out in the mirror and then turning to beam at them. 

“I love this! It’s lovely, simply lovely. Possibly the nicest thing I’ve ever worn. I feel like a prince!”

“You should, you look fantastic in it.”

“Do I? Truly?” and those now-blue eyes looked at him, slightly pleading.

Crowley nodded, wholeheartedly, feeling pleased they could respond in earnest. “Absolutely. You look as posh as you sound. Stunning and incredibly flattering. This one for sure is going home with you.”

“Oh. Oh thank you, my dear!” He pressed his hands to the garment, smoothing down the sides in just the way Crowley wanted to and wiggled, a happy back and forth bounce that made Crowley feel a rush of pleasure. They’d never evoked such unbridled joy and they loved it, wished they could experience it every day. Or perhaps it was the “my dear” that slipped out instead of “sir” that was making them want more. Either way, Crowley was soaking in the vat of endorphins their body had turned into. 

“Alright, alright, next!” said Crowley as they jokingly shooed him off. With his grin still firmly in place their bodyguard complied, bounding back to the changing room. 

Next was a burnished gold silk with embroidered curling vines in tan with red flowers, and it was as ridiculously flattering. Crowley had definitely chosen the right store and garments— Fell looked so lux and happy. This one they’d chosen to pick out the red lines of the tartan, and it worked perfectly. They gave the man a big thumbs up and a grin, which only made him beam more, bouncing and flouncing in front of the mirror. He looked gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous, preening like that. 

He must have picked his favorites first, because the rest weren’t quite so flattering, but they did also choose a lavender and grey waistcoat and a rich brown pinstripe. It was a nice variety, and Crowley picked matching (but not matchy-matchy) pocket squares and showed him which went with which. Fell memorized them with enthusiasm, his eyes bright and shining. They also got a pair of black arm garters, and Crowley showed him how to use them, explained how they’d dress up a shirt and waistcoat when it was too hot for a coat but you still wanted that old-fashioned formal ambiance. 

They paid for their purchases and before Fell could gather up the bags they pulled out the cream and rainbow pocket square, folded it up and tucked it into the pocket of his old suit's waistcoat. 

“There. Now you look even better. This one’s for this suit.” Which would serve as a valuable reminder that the man was gay, and therefore only attracted to men. Crowley wasn’t a man, and wasn’t even a manly person, and so there was no point in getting all twisted up inside, no matter how adorable and desirable they found him. 

Their bodyguard beamed more of that megawatt smile, clearly proud as a peacock. Their next two stops were not as lucrative. There was very little there that Crowley thought was worth purchasing, so they moved on. Last up was another small boutique, though this one was also a tailor. Getting the right fit on a coat or jacket was more complicated and beyond Crowley’s sewing skill set. This time they worked with the attendant, who bustled over their bodyguard and had him stand on a pedestal by a tri-fold mirror, but also quickly summed up that Crowley was in charge and addressed them. 

Crowley gave the attendant their bodyguard’s measurements then said, “We need two coats to complete his wardrobe. Something casual and something formal. For the casual I think something in a camel or fawn color, though I’m open to suggestions, it just has to suit the bow tie. Wide lapels, but not peaked. For the formal one, I’m thinking grey not black, with a shawl lapel and more of an Italian cut.”

“I think we have just the things,” said the attendant, and then he disappeared into the back. He returned with several coats that met Crowley’s specifications, and had their bodyguard try each on. This time the attendant gave a commentary on each, including things that the store would tailor to fit better, and Crowley mostly stayed silent. The man knew his stuff. They ended up going with his suggestions, choosing a toasted wheat colored and a slate grey coat. The tailor then came out and marked them all up with chalk, promising they’d be ready in a week or less. Crowley paid and had their bodyguard leave his contact info, with instructions to come pick them up when they were ready.

Finished with the shopping, Crowley checked the time. It was almost 3:30, and they still had sewing to finish. 

“I’m starving. How about a late lunch break?” they said. 

Their bodyguard nodded. “Where would you like to go?”

“I don’t care but you do, I bet. What do you want?”

He dipped his chin and demurred. Crowley remembered the last time he’d chosen it’d been fantastic food, and this time they wouldn’t get so wrapped up in the date-like atmosphere. 

“Come on. You picked a great place last time. Surely you know something cheap and good for lunch?”

He hummed in acknowledgement. “Well if you put it that way… What would you say to some crepes?”

“Sounds marvelous. Lead on,” they gave a bow and a gesture to go ahead, and he did. It was a short walk to where they were going. Apparently the man knew what was nearby in Kensington without consulting the internet— An old fashioned but nevertheless impressive skill. They got a table and ordered, Crowley ordering sweet and their bodyguard a mix of savory and sweet crepes. 

“You seem happy with today's purchases,” they said.

“Oh, I am. I’ve never had anything so fancy before. I’ve never really shopped anywhere like that before either, just basic department stores. It’s a very different experience. Especially with someone as knowledgeable as you. I would have had no idea what to do and it would have taken me hours of trying things to see what works. This was impressively efficient.”

Crowley tipped their nonexistent hat, “I’m good at what I do.”

“You are. Most impressive!”

They glowed, the praise stoking a fire in them. “It was my pleasure, honestly. You are a very fun doll to dress up. I could never pull off the looks you can. Too pointy and girly. I look very different in a suit.”

“I’d love to see it. I’m sure you look splendid.”

“Well. That is my job.”

“And you’re very good at what you do,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Crowley laughed, right from the belly, as their own words were thrown back at them. “Indeed.” Once they settled down they added, “So. What do you do for fun?”

“I read, mostly, when I get the chance.”

“What kind of stuff do you read?”

“A little bit of everything. Poetry. Classics. Novels. Articles.”

“Huh. Ever watch any telly?”

“From time to time, though it's usually things that the kids want me to watch with them.” 

“Like what?”

“They think it’s fun to watch horror movies with me. Adam and Pepper think they’re just ‘wicked’ and think it’s funny how distressed I get. The last thing we watched was a foreign zombie movie about a train. It was terrifying,” he said with a shudder. 

“Then why do you watch it?” 

“Because they love it, and I love them and want to enjoy things together. It’s not so bad, and they really are so happy about it. And they show me things they think I’ll like sometimes too. We watched all of The Great British Bake Off and then we all made cakes together in our own home version. They are not very good bakers yet but they can make a mix from a box reasonably well. I marveled them all with souffle for dinner though. Trounced them at that.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Speaking of them, I was hoping I could ask you for some advice. My newest, Warlock, she’s just come out as trans.” he pulled out his phone, tapping on the screen, looking for something. “I’ve promised to take her shopping for new clothes as well this week, for women’s clothes, but I’m afraid I’m not sure where to go. Ah! Here we are!” And he held out his phone for Crowley to look. On it was a picture of a teenager, pouty, with pale skin and lanky chin-length dark hair, wearing a black hoodie and black leggings. “This is her.”

Crowley took a moment to process. They had been reasonably certain that all the kid stuff was lies, but now they were reassessing that conclusion. “What kind of style does she want?”

“As you can see, she’s very fond of black, and when she and Pepper and Wensleydale were talking, they seem to come to the conclusion that she is a ‘goth’ or ‘punk’ girl. I also think that a lot of your personal style would very much suit her. You’ve very glamorous but not girly.”

“Yeah, I can see that all working for her. That’s gonna be easy then, that’s not a complicated or expensive style. First things first, you’re gonna want to go to a department store makeup section and get someone to show her how to put on eyeliner, and buy some. I’d recommend MAC cosmetics, but only for that. If they want more, try a cheap drugstore brand. I’ll text you some clothing stores to try. Let me know how it all turns out? I’d love picture updates.” And they’d have the added bonus of confirming that it was real, and not just another part of the act, not a facade he was putting on to be boyfriend material.

“Oh, thank you, I shall. It means a lot to me, we’ve all been very worried about her and I’m hoping that we can help make her transition as smooth as possible. But enough about me. Do you watch telly, then?”

“I do. Like to have something on to listen to when I’m working at home, or on my days off. I like to binge watch a good story, or something that makes me laugh.”

“Oh, I get that way at work sometimes.” he fished out an earpiece from his pocket. It was a conspicuous one, with a swirly cord like an old telephone, like guards in movies used. He leaned in, conspiratorially, and lowered his voice. “When I’m at a job and wearing this no one thinks twice, but I actually am listening to audiobooks. I get a lot of ‘reading’ done that way. Security involves a lot of standing around, waiting.”

“Crafty bastard.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.”

“Good, cause it was.”

Their food arrived and Fell gave an adorable little golf clap and wiggle as it was set in front of him. His eyes rolled back in his head as he tasted the first bite and he moaned. Oh god, those moans. They’d forgotten about the moaning and bliss faces he made when he was eating. 

“That is delectable. I love a good crepe,” he said, already loading up his fork, meticulously stacking a little bit of everything for a perfect bite. 

Crowley tried to swallow, choked on nothing, took a gulp of water, crossed their legs and tried to focus on their own food, but then Fell ate that bite with blatant ecstasy and _ shit shit shit _ . They were getting wet and they needed to not. This was his colleague who was very gay and nothing would come of this. They fixed their eyes on their food, darting up to the pocket square they’d put there as a reminder whenever they got tempted to ogle. 

* * *

Crowley had been strangely silent once their food had arrived. Aziraphale had tried to engage a few times, praising his own lunch and inquiring on theirs, but they had responded with a noncommittal noise if at all to these overtures, so he’d stopped. They’d also eaten slowly and with a lot of focus, so perhaps there was something wrong. Was it not to their liking? Were they just forcing themselves to eat whatever was put in front of them? 

That was remarkably sad. Food was a joy. To eat food was to rejoice in life and all the joys of it! He would just have to pay more attention, make some discreet but probing questions about the sorts of things they did enjoy. He was probably going to keep being asked for recommendations, and so it would do to be prepared. 

“Now where to, sir?” he asked, which for some reason made their forehead crease and they pressed their lips into a line for a long moment before replying. 

“Back to mine. We still have to tailor those shirts, then we’re done.”

Were they going to a tailor after going to their home? Aziraphale wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work but he didn’t question it, just continued his escorting duties and took them home. When they arrived they ushered them inside, locking the door behind them and having him put all their purchases of the day on their bed. Crowley started rifling through everything, pulling out the shirts first and stacking them.

“Is there something I can do?” he asked.

“No. Just get comfortable. This is going to take a while, but you gotta be here for the whole process.”

Aziraphale acquiesced, turning to take in his surroundings a bit better. It was a tiny flat. There was an entertainment center with a good sized television and some cases and IKEA boxes in ts cubbies. The bed was shoved into one corner farthest from the entrance, which was at least a queen, black and soft looking, with satiny sheets. On the other wall by the front door was a large desk with what could only be described as a gilded throne in front of it, and beside all that was a counter, cabinets, a microwave and a little fridge. Two other doors were on the last wall on one side, one of which was presumably the water closet, and a few little potted plants lined the single window’s window sill by the bed. 

He wasn’t really sure where he was supposed to be getting comfortable. Certainly not on the throne, which was the only place to sit other than the bed. He clasped his hands and took up a station by the door, instead. Crowley finished their sorting and noticed, which clearly annoyed them. 

Aziraphale was starting to get the pattern here. They really did not like being reminded that he was a bodyguard, and didn’t like it when he acted formally. He tried to loosen up, stand more casually, but it was almost against his nature. Where did one put their arms when they wanted to stand casually? Parade rest? No… he wrung his hands, now nervous and uncertain of what to do. 

“Just come sit on the bed. I know there’s not a lot here. Listen to one of your books or something.” Crowley said and opened one of the doors into a closet, where they dug out a big box and dragged it to their desk. 

Aziraphale perched himself on the edge of the bed. It felt intimate, and invasive, especially considering the urge to lean down and smell their pillows, find out how good their scent was. He ignored that, instead opting to watch Crowley unpack a sewing machine and sundry and set them up. Then it dawned on him. 

“ _You’re_ going to tailor the shirts?” he blurted out. 

Crowley glanced at him out of the corner of their eye and kept going about setting up their supplies. “Yeah. What of it?”

“Nothing. I’m just surprised. I didn’t know you were so multi-talented.” 

They grunted. “Well remember how I told you I worked my way up from the gutters?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well the pay is terrible in the gutter. And yet you’re still expected to look like you’re already rich. Learned to sew and tailor my own clothes so I always looked very put together, even in basics I picked up second hand. I’ve even put together a few of my own clothes. Nothing fancy, just a cocktail dress or two. Those are actually cheaper to make if you can.”

Nothing fancy? That is an understatement, if Aziraphale ever heard one. They made their own cocktail dresses and knew how to tailor and be a stylist and model and it was… they were just so impressive, and cool and amazing and Aziraphale was in awe. He was so glad he’d gotten this assignment, gotten to meet this amazing individual, got to spend time with them. It was a gift, being able to care for someone so wonderful, one he was thankful for. 

Crowley walked over to him and handed him the shirt they’d been holding. “Can you put this on inside-out? It’s awkward to button but helps me. The bathroom is the over there but it’s tiny, so I’ll wait in there, you change out here.”

“Oh no, it’s fine. I wouldn’t want to kick you out of your own room.” And as nervous as he was being around someone so beautiful when he looked like he did, they had already seen him in just a vest and trousers. Once more wouldn’t change their opinion of his mediocre looks. He started unbuttoning his outer layers. 

“Uh.” They stared at him for a long moment, then shook themselves. “I’ll just wait over here, then.” They jammed their hands into their pockets, moved to the sewing machine, and stood facing the wall.

Aziraphale stripped, setting his things down with care, and did as he was told. It was very awkward to button, as they’d said, but he managed. He told Crowley when he was done and they turned around, grabbed a few safety pins and blue chalk and came over. 

“Stand straight and still. Shouldn’t be too hard for you,” they said. Aziraphale snorted and assumed his usual stance. Crowley started pulling at the fabric, pinching and pinning, lightly brushing up against Aziraphale’s sides. It nearly tickled, and was the kind of feather-light touch that begged for more. They knelt and had Aziraphale raise his arms as they marked things, and looking down at the sight of their bent head sent a shiver up his spine. He had to turn away or risked making a spectacle of himself. 

“Alright, I'm done. Take that off and try not to smudge it.” They resumed their wall stare while he changed. He was careful, as requested, and handed it over. Crowley took it and sat down at the sewing machine, changing bits and flipping levers and making it go somehow, without touching it. It was like magic. 

He watched them working, their long, deft fingers pulling pins and fabric, their eyebrows drawn down in concentration. They had pulled up their hair into a messy bun, exposing the graceful arch of their neck as they bent over their work, freckles dotting their sun-kissed shoulders. Every time they pulled out a pin they stuck it in their mouth, sticking out like little tusks and it was so adorable. A stray hair kept falling in front of their eyes and they’d tuck it back behind their ear but it just escaped again and again. 

When they were done they had him put the shirt on, right ways this time, and check the fit. He moved about, making sure it wasn’t too tight in the shoulders or for the kinds of fast moves any surprise fights would require, which seemed to surprise Crowley. They both declared it good, and moved to the next shirt, repeating the process. Aziraphale turned on his audiobook, trying not to just stare at them the whole time, as entrancing as they were. He was halfway through  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _ , and felt it was appropriate moral to remember, in light of all his luxurious new clothing, but he nevertheless ended up holding his new stack of clothes, running his fingertips reverently over the silks and velvets. This was the nicest thing anyone had done for him in a long time, even if it was just for work uniforms, and he felt his eyes get misty. He blinked, trying to banish the moisture before Crowley saw. No need to get someone else worried. 

They repeated the tailoring process until Crowley declared everything acceptable, then they went over with him what paired well with what, and how to mix and match to make complete outfits. They went over washing instructions, and once Crowley seemed satisfied that Aziraphale had learned what he needed, packed his bags back up and sent him on his way with a soft smile and a wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale be learning and yearning!
> 
> I adored the brocade of Aziraphale's outfit at the Globe Theater so much, and so of course it had to make an appearance. It would make a swanky waistcoat!


	6. Chapter 6

The weekend passed uneventfully. Crowley texted their bodyguard a list of links to stores like they’d asked for and then settled down to some Netflix and delivery for their Saturday, binge watching a new heist show everyone online was talking about and live tweeting jokes about it. They did this a lot, occasionally sparking a heated debate that was incredibly rewarding for them because they reveled in the resulting chaos. Certainly not because they were starved for human contact and it felt more like they were watching with other people that way. 

On Sunday the weather was slightly overcast and warm but not hot, so they went for a nice long walk around the botanical gardens, dreaming of one day when they could have more than just a single plant. They took themselves out to a bar that evening, drinking while presenting as man because it was too much of a hassle to go while presenting even somewhat femme, and enjoyed dancing to some overly loud music. They were a terrible dancer, but they could bob to a heavy bassline in a crowd. There was something about being in a seething mass of sweaty drunks, all pressed up together on the dance floor that soothed something inside them. Something that had been pulling and aching these last few weeks. Something that felt even more hollow when they came home by themselves to their empty flat. 

And still, nothing happened to them. Because they didn’t need a bodyguard. Like they’ve been saying. 

When Monday rolled around they went out for brunch at their favorite diner and then settled in to work — mostly market research: checking style bloggers, celebrity fashion news, new ad campaigns, and the ilk. They got a text in the middle of the afternoon from their bodyguard:

_ Thank you for the recommendations! They were very well received by Warlock. We made many purchases, and she is especially enthused about eyeliner. You have both of our gratitude.  _

Followed by a picture of the same person Fell had shown them on Friday, but this time they were in a store standing in front of a mirror and smiling, wearing full rim black eyeliner, even in the waterline, black lipstick, a black t-shirt dress belted with a silver studded belt, leggings and chunky boots covered in buckles. In the background a black girl was giving a thumbs up while sticking her tongue out.

She was real. Fell really was the angel of queer youth in London. Their heart skipped a beat, and their mouth went dry. They would have to reassess their mistrust. Clearly, he was the kind of person Crowley had always wanted, a savior to swoop in after their family had failed to provide safety. These kids were so lucky that they had him. Maybe none of what had happened was a lie, and they had just been having pleasant outings together. Two semi-dates that weren’t dates but that felt like the kind of getting to know one another that dating usually had. But not, because they worked together and this was just colleagues spending time together. 

Or something. Wasn’t worth thinking too hard about. Fell was very gay and so nothing would come of it, regardless. 

The next day they got messages from Tracy letting them know that the contract that they’d signed with Ko’ushichan Dior was filed and that Crowley’s first weekly meeting was scheduled for Thursday, as well as some details about the time and place. Madame Tracy had turned down Lucky’s contract because of the conflict with Dior, and said she was attempting to negotiate a new one. Crowley crossed their fingers she’d be able to— Lucky had really helped them get a lot of work so far and they didn’t want to burn that bridge. 

Lastly, the Madame had scheduled several new skill building activities. First, an appointment with a vocal coach for “an assessment of talents” next week. That was a bit intimidating. Should they do some singing practice or something? Who knew. Next, they’d been enrolled in a bi-weekly acting class and told that if they did well at it they’d be applying to drama schools in the fall. Lastly, they needed to schedule some basic martial arts tutoring with their bodyguard, who had suggested they start next Sunday. They rolled their eyes at that, imagining the limp-wristed fighting style someone like that dandy-lion would know. 

Things were moving fast. Crowley loved it when things went fast. They felt energized and started digging into the processes, researching London Drama Schools and acting in general for the rest of the day while  _ Cutthroat Kitchen _ played in the background. Their quiet life, back to normal— sort of. By themselves in their little one-room home, buying cheap meals they ate alone and working hard to improve their lot. This was what they were used to, what worked for them. It was enough to have a career that was taking off. It had to be, because they had never had friends or family or a personal life and things weren’t going to miraculously change. 

* * *

Aziraphale was uncomfortable with but also thankful for all the free time they had. Crowley must be more of a homebody than he had thought, since he was supposed to be summoned anytime they went anywhere— to the grocery store or to a restaurant or a walk or anything. He wasn’t complaining, mind. He’d gotten to spend his entire Saturday with the kids, something he almost never got to do, and then after teaching his Sunday classes at the company gym he’d gone over an itinerary with Warlock for shopping. Pepper had wanted to come and Warlock said she’d like that, so the three of them had trekked about the city going to the shops Crowley had suggested the next day. 

It had been extraordinary fun. He didn’t know shopping could be anything other than stressful, but Crowley had changed his mind. They giggled about the things they liked and made exaggerated faces disparaging the ones they didn’t. The girls enthusiasm about all the black and scary garments they’d tried on was infectious, and Aziraphale’s cheeks hurt from all the smiling he’d done. 

“I bet I could make a grown man piss themselves in this,” Pepper had said after trying on a particularly spiky leather jacket. Warlock had laughed and Aziraphale had pressed their lips and refrained from commenting. Pepper could probably make a grown man piss themselves even without the jacket, to be honest. She was strong willed and confident and unafraid of confrontation, all a bit much for the average British man. They couldn’t afford leather, but that didn’t seem to phase the girls from trying and dreaming, and Aziraphale was certainly not going to dampen their spirits. 

One of the stores exclusively sold studded and spiked clothing, and Warlock was so entranced that she tried on nearly everything they had in her size. Popping out of the changing room with a skip in her step, they applauded and she beamed, her effusiveness and amusing contrast to the heavy and intimidating looks she adored. That store was a bit pricey, so picking what they could afford had been difficult, but they’d taken pictures of things she liked to be added to her wish list. 

This trip was a resounding success, and after spending all day and slightly more than he intended Warlock was well outfitted and happy with her new clothes, unable to sit still once they got home and ending up spending more time with The Them than usual.

Once the work week resumed he had called the family’s GP and gotten an appointment where Warlock was finally placed on hormone blockers, which would delay her puberty as long as she’d liked. She wasn’t sure she wanted to start any other hormone treatment, but the blockers would give her all the time she wanted to decide how she would develop. They sent her therapist updates as well.

I was all very rewarding, and Warlock was more content than she’d ever been. She was even eating regularly again, not needing to be cajoled to join everyone at mealtimes, not hiding in her room all day.

He’d been contacted by Ms. Tracy Potts, who wanted to discuss adding some basic martial arts training to Crowley’s schedule, and asked if he would consider adding private tutoring of that to his bodyguard duties for the same hourly rate. He agreed, although then she wanted to know if someone could record video of Crowley’s progress and possibly of their lessons together and that gave him pause. He’d never been recorded before and the thought of appearing on film, chubby as he was, was mortifying. Surely no one would want to see that, a big fat gay man like him flailing about with someone as stunning as Crowley. Once she reassured him it would only be used to prove Crowley’s skill level with potential employers, and wouldn’t be public or broadcast he reluctantly accepted. 

After that he was cc’d on an email from her to Crowley detailing several upcoming appointments, which he added to his schedule. The first of which rolled around that Thursday. He arrived to pick up Crowley wearing his new clothes and feeling very fancy. Since it was warm out he’d forgone a coat, instead wearing a cream shirt and his embroidered gold waistcoat with arm garters and tan slacks. He was greeted more warmly than ever before, a smidgen of crinkling visible around their eyes, even though they were obscured by their sunglasses, and it lit him up inside to know Crowley approved of their clothing. Crowley looked as spectacular and perfect as ever, wearing a plain black tank top and black shorts. Their hair was down today, falling in gentle curls around their neck and shoulders.

“How was your weekend?” asked Crowley as they exited their building. 

“Oh, lovely. I got to spend so much time with the kids. It’s what I spent most of my time on.”

Cowley nodded, “On angel duty.” 

A thrill went up his spine upon hearing that, spilling golden through his body. He knew he was blushing, but Crowley just smiled at him, unfazed by how obviously affected Aziraphale was. The urge to minimize arose, to say no, he was only doing what was expected, but he quashed it. It chafed a little, the blatant admiration in Crowley’s voice, but he liked it, liked being appreciated by someone as amazing as Crowley. It felt more real, coming from them than it did coming from other people. 

He escorted them back to the office building they’d been to with Tracy last week, though this time Crowley pulled him aside in the lobby right before they reached the elevators. 

“Look, I don’t want to complicate things too much, and if you come up with me again I’m going to have to introduce you. And If I introduce you, it’s going to have to be as my boyfriend, remember? I’d prefer to not get that all tangled up with work if I can avoid it.”

He had been thinking about being mistaken for the boyfriend a lot, especially in the night when he was trying to fall asleep in awkward places. He’d close his eyes and think: What if it was real? What would it feel like to kiss them, to hold them. To see them smile at him over breakfast and to bicker at the grocery store. Or was Crowley too big for that, and didn’t need someone who couldn’t even afford grocery delivery, someone who had to cook his own meals. Would they be disgusted at the thought of touching him, a short polar bear gay? They certainly had been avoiding touching their bodyguard so far. He quashed those thoughts and merely replied, “Ah, yes. I remember the conversation you had with Miss Tracy.”

“Madame Tracy. She’s way too old to be a Miss.”

“I couldn’t call her that!” He flailed a little, waving his hands in aborted gestures. “She’s a lovely woman, not a— not a— a lady of the evening…” 

Crowley giggled, trying to smother it behind their hand, their long, dark green nails pressing into their cheek, and oh God, they were so gorgeous and elegant. He knew he was being laughed at, for his fussy foppish mannerisms that had gotten him into a lot of trouble in the past, but he didn’t mind. Not when their eyes sparkled so bright he could see it through the sunglasses. 

“I want in on the joke,” said a cheery female voice from behind him. It instantly sobered up Crowley, who stood straight and cleared their throat. 

“Good morning, Ms. Device. I’m happy to be working with you today,” they said. 

The beautiful woman from their “go-see” with the round glasses and dusky complexion joined them, nodding her head in acknowledgement to each of them. She wore a long green and blue tartan dress that looked very stylish. “Please, call me Anathema. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other for the next year so we might as well be friendly.” She turned to Aziraphale. 

“I haven’t had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, though I remember you from our last meeting with Jay. I’m surprised to see you this time, I thought you were Tracy’s assistant.” She held out her hand, and Aziraphale took it, giving it a gentle shake. 

“A. Z. Fell, at your service,” he said and bowed slightly, an old-fashioned greeting. “I’m escorting Crowley—”

“He’s my boyfriend, and helping me get around town,” Crowley cut in.

“Oh, aren’t you a sweet thing. Well, let’s head up, and I’ll introduce you two to the team.” she said, and hit the elevator call button. 

Crowley glared at him behind her back, and it struck his body like a bell, the realization reverberating through him. They didn’t want him there. They never had.

He was the fool for getting all worked up when he was unwanted. He let his face show he was properly chagrined and Crowley seemed to accept that, returning to chatting cheerily with Anathema on the ride up. As they walked in, they were greeted by the rest of the people gathered around a large table covered in fabrics and lace and paper. 

“If I could have everyone’s attention?” Anathema spoke, addressing the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around. Aziraphale recognized one of them, it was Newt, the makeup artist from his first escorting job with Crowley. “This is Jay Crowley, our division muse who will be working with us for the next year. And this is her boyfriend, A. Z. Fell.”

The both gave a wave. 

“Crowley this is the design team, though we all have second hats. I’m the head designer and also a seamstress. This is Cassius Baxter, who goes by Cass and is our pattern maker and seamstress.” She gestured to a man who looked in his late 30s wearing a white button up and black slacks, but with studded details. He was brown skinned and blonde, and multiple large silver safety pins pierced his face. One went through his lip and moved when he smiled, and it looked painful. There were others on his ears and one in his eyebrow. “This is Alexia Elliott, our master of textiles and fabrication.” Alexia waved gracefully, and smiled at them. She had long straight hair dyed a rich forest green and incredibly colorful makeup. She wore a long dress that was a little old fashioned, which looked like a modern version of a regency ball gown, with less frills and pouf to the skirt. “And last is our probationary designer, Newt Pulsifer, who you’ve already met and will be doing art, makeup and styling for us.” 

“It’s fantastic to meet you all and an honor to work with such a gifted team,” said Crowley. 

“Alright, enough of the formalities. I brought chocolate! Who wants some?” she said and raised the paper bag she was carrying. Everyone was very excited and she brought out a tray of high-end chocolates and everyone set upon them. They were met with moans of appreciation though Aziraphale held back, even though he definitely wanted to try one. Anathema seemed to sense that and handed him one with a wink. 

“Make yourself comfortable. We’re an informal lot and your company is welcome.”

“Thank you very much,” Aziraphale said, touched by her warm regard. He left the main body of the room to go back to the couch by the door, their little informal reception area, and watched the proceedings from there. 

“Alright, on today’s agenda we are first working on polishing our lineup for London Fashion Week projects, with today’s focus being on trims. If we have time for it then we’re sketching ideas for the winter and Christmas lines. Can we get these on hangers and displayed on the board?” Anathema said and gestured to the pile of fabric on the big worktable. Cass and Alexia set to work, putting each piece on hangers and hanging them from pegs above the large white board that took up most of one wall. Newt looked lost and like he wanted to help but had no idea what he was doing. 

“Right. We have eighteen looks for that catwalk,” Anathema said, and started shuffling them around. “I think this is a good order for walking and I think this one and this one—” she pointed to two dresses— “are ready to walk. What do you guys think?”

Alexis, a very soft spoken woman, said “I agree those two are good, but I think that we shouldn’t open with separates, since the majority of the collection is one pieces”

“And we should use more of that lace on other looks for continuity,” added Cass in a gentle baritone that was rather sexy. 

This triggered an outburst from Alexis who started arguing about costs of production and how it was hand-tatted and Anathema joined in, arguing about a ready-to-wear translation, whatever that was. Poor Newt looked as wide eyed as Aziraphale felt, unsure what to do when such beautiful, confident people battled wills like that. 

Crowley took it all in stride, and actually offered up a few suggestions, saying something about “screen printing as a pattern over a solid,” whatever that meant. Alexis liked that and started draping bits of lace over some of the clothing, which just sparked more animated discussion and pointing. Anathema traded out her big round glasses for some narrow half-moon reading glasses and started sketching rapidly. Even Newt joined in after a while, adding a few lines here and there to her sketches or suggesting colors. 

Once some sort of conclusion had been reached they had Crowley change into one of their looks, a black dress with lace sleeves they looked stunning in. It hugged their waist to spill into a long skirt, giving them the feeling of floating as they moved. Their neck and shoulders were mostly bare, the dips of their elegant collarbones begging to be traced, and the drip of lace shrouding their hands, just their talented fingers peeking out. Alexis pinned a few places to make it fit snug to their torso, and then the group stared at Crowley as they posed a few ways for them. 

“I think it needs something to make it softer. Less costume but still all witch,” said Anathema. 

Newt perked up, “I have a few ideas. Here!” He went to Crowley and started plaiting their hair in a messy fishtail braid over one shoulder, then got out a makeup palette and gave them a smokey eye. Anathema clapped and praised. He grabbed her round glasses, putting them on Crowley and adding a black fur trim over one shoulder.

Crowley tilted, turning sideways and holding the fur up to their face. They looked lux and glamorous and it earned a round of approval from the designers, which seemed to overwhelm poor Newt. Anathema snapped a few pics on her phone and then grinned and clapped Newt on the back, complimenting him for a job well done. He blushed and stammered as he took the compliment. They agreed that it worked better and moved on. Anathema handed Newt her phone and told him to translate it into a sketch then had Crowley change into a different outfit. 

It was blue with the aforementioned lace covering most of it. Aziraphale had never seen Crowley in blue before and he drank in the sight like a starving man. Then Anathema and Alexis started arguing about proportions and Anathema just started hitching Crowley’s skirt up so their knees were bared and— 

_ Good Lord. _ His palms started getting clammy as he looked at the skin of their thighs displayed like that. He imagined he was the one to slowly hitch up those skirts— 

Aziraphale slapped himself on the back of his hand, a gentle reminder not to let his thoughts drift too far in that utterly inappropriate direction. No more lecherous thoughts, no matter how amazing these professionals were and how interesting watching them play grown-up dress-up was. Crowley didn’t want him, they didn’t even like having him lingering around as a bodyguard. Clearly, even pretending to date him was resented. Crowley couldn’t have made that more clear if he’d shouted it from the rooftops. Every single one of these professionals was better than him, more talented, more driven, more impressive, and this was the world Crowley lived in. They met people like this all the time, people he paled in comparison to. Entertaining the fantasy was just that: a fantasy. 

Alexis switched to just moving the lace about as it hung off Crowley. Eventually this conflict was resolved and they had Crowley change again. They went on like this, occasionally silent and contemplative as they stared at their model, occasionally bickering and arguing heatedly, Cass and Anathema adding and pinning and tucking while Alexis complained of logistics and Newt dared an interjection here and there. After the sixth or seventh outfit, this one getting heated over the amount of drape the trumpet sleeves needed, Anathema declared they needed a break and it was time to change topics. Crowley left to change back into their normal clothes and Anathema booted up the huge TV on the wall opposite the white board and dug out a tablet. 

She put up a set of fashion sketches on the screen and said, “Right, we’re brainstorming for winter and Christmas lines, couture and ready-to-wear. Here are the sketches from the last session that we kept. I like the proportions we were playing with but I’m not sure we’re showing enough range. A lot of these silhouettes are similar to the fall lines.”

“I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. If we’re thinking Witch is our brand theme then a lot of looseness and flowing garments are naturally going to reoccur. Themes come with the silhouette,” said Cass.

“Plus most of the nerd references are going to have flowing fabric. Gowns and robes and the ilk,” said Newt “Doublets and uniforms are the only references you’ve made in the past that aren’t.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Anathema. 

“The textiles will be completely different, so that’s going to help. I have a few swatches finally,” added Alexis, and started pinning squares of fabric to the wall beside the TV. 

“Oh, I love that knit. And I liked our sculpted silk gazar last season, I want to try and pull that into later looks, do we have more of that? Maybe with that silk matka?” 

Newt nodded and started scribbling on his sketchbook as Anathema pulled up a blank page on the screen and started drawing with her tablet. The silence drew out, with the designers pinning pages to the wall or adding more on the tablet to the digital display. They were very impressive artists, laying down lines lighting fast and exactly where they needed to be, though all their drawings looked like Crowley, if a bit unnaturally long and lanky. Aziraphale had never seen someone draw before, much less so precisely and without erasing. It was astonishingly skilled, and Aziraphale felt like it was a privilege to witness, though it only underlined the vast distance between their worlds. A distance he’d never cross. 

Anathema paused, tapping her fingernails on the table and then said, “We need more outerwear. Let's generate ideas for that.” 

Now they started putting up sketches of coats and cardigans and boots and purses, the last two mostly from Alexis, before Anathema called a halt. 

“We’re almost out of time for this week with Crowley, is there anything you guys still need her for? We’ll finish brainstorming today and tomorrow and next week more revisions.”

Alexis stood and said, “I’ve got some accessories I want pictures of with the model for scale.” She left out the back, where there was another room full of racks and racks of clothes and fabrics and you could hear the rattle of some machines echoing from deep back there. 

When she returned it was with an armload of bags and belts. She handed them to Crowley one at a time and Crowley posed, making sure whatever accessories they were given were front and center, and Alexis snapped shots on her phone, thanking Crowley in between. The other designers tossed out a few comments as they went. When they finished Anathema made her goodbyes all around and reiterated how happy they were to have Crowley on board.

Crowley shook each of their hands goodbye with those strong, delicate fingers and Aziraphale found himself noting that he didn’t get touched when they said goodbye. He’d never gotten so much as a handshake, not even a professional one. Crowley had never wanted him here, had never liked having him around. He’d been an idiot to ever entertain the idea it could be otherwise.

* * *

The next evening was the Couture London Jewelry Exchange, an invite-only, high-end affair and Crowley was walking the catwalk for Savage Roses. The whole affair took over a fancy hotel and was high-security, considering there were several hundred million pounds worth of gemstones being shown in the galleries alone. 

It was not the kind of affair your boyfriend, fake or not, could linger backstage with you. Had it been up to them, Crowley wouldn't have even told him about it, but of course Madame Tracy was forwarding the schedule of any of their official bookings. After their very successful first session with K.U.D. they'd tried to explain how this was going to be a thing for only multimillionaires, and so existing security would be adequate and the boyfriend story wouldn’t work, but their bodyguard had only acquiesced to waiting outside the hotel complex. 

In his defense, he showed up that afternoon dressed to the nines, wearing the silver waistcoat with his formal grey outerwear that looked like a modernized tuxedo coat. His halo of defined white curls was the most controlled and intentional it had ever been. He even had a pair of winged cufflinks and matching pinky signet ring that they’d never seen before and looked both old and expensive. Classy. He looked impeccable, spotless, perfect. It took Crowley’s breath away better than a punch to the stomach. 

The entire trip Crowley kept sneaking glances at him, doing their best to not be caught staring but drinking in the sight when they could. Part of it was pride, certainly. They had polished this diamond, it was fine if they wanted to admire their handiwork. Plus they were proud of Fell, who had added his own touches expertly, taking the lessons they’d provided to heart. Nothing to do with any other feelings. They arrived, ignored the front entrance, being for guests and more of a red carpet, and walked around to the loading bays, where a security checkpoint was set up and checking names on lists for anyone entering the venue. 

“Alright, that’s the security checkpoint. I will come out of this entrance when I’m finished, which will probably be after nine o’clock. Catwalks take forever and they’re very hectic, so I won’t have a phone on me or anything, but I promise I’m fine and you should just wait patiently. Got it?”

“I understand, sir. Break a leg, perhaps?”

Crowley smirked. “Something like that, sure. Thanks.” They went and checked in, being told how to navigate to where they needed to be, and they maneuvered the long hallways deftly. Backstage of the catwalk show was a chaotic riot of noise and color and people. There were black curtains sectioning off places into stations, different areas crammed with racks of clothing or boxes supervised by intimidating men in black suits, or cluttered makeup and hair booths, all with models and designers and grips fluttering from place to place. One lady with a grey streak in her hair and wearing a black turtleneck sat at a table by the entrance talking on a headset to someone she was really pissed off with about a speaker situation. Crowley patiently waited for her to pay attention to them.

“Name,” she barked, grabbing a clipboard and a pen.

“Antoinette J Crowley, walking for Savage Roses.”

She found them and struck through their name,”You’re number 5. Order is fitting, makeup, hair, clothing, lineup, jewelry. Got it?”

“Roger and out.”

She pushed a button on her walkie, “Maya, #5 is here.” Crowley moved off to the side, and a harried looking woman with a high bun hustled out of one of the alcoves and waved Crowley over. She and two other people were crammed together with racks of clothing, though the others were hand stitching as fast as they could. 

“Nice to meet you, Maya. I’m Crowley.”

“Yes, of course,” she absentmindedly said as she pulled a zipped garment bag off the rack labeled #5 and unpacked it, handing each item to Crowley as they did. “Alright, change into that and let me see.”

Crowley hooked the hangers on the rack and started stripping to bra and panties right then and there, which was very normal for a model. When they’d first started modeling, at the lovely and awkward age of fourteen, they’d been embarrassed by it, had make some stupid rookie mistakes. Now, they wore the correct kind of blank-canvas undergarments that was part of the job description, though sometimes the designers had different specifications or included a bra. They had to order panties special for modeling, since they needed things to be a bit smoothed in the front and plain underwear was inadequate to the task. A single scrap of quilted cotton was all that kept them safe from repeating one of the most humiliating incidents they’d ever had. Not  _ the  _ most, no. That one had been personal. But certainly top ten.

Maya got called on the radio for #16 and #9 and she dashed off while Crowley was still dressing, though she was back with two other models by the time they’d pulled on their dark purple pants and were just sorting the many layers of the flowing top. She handed the others their garments and then started pinching and pulling at Crowley’s clothes, frowning at the waist and tucking and un-tucking the top before she started pinning things, bringing in the waistband a little and adjusting the drape on the top. She stood back and tilted her head from side to side then declared it fine and had Crowley change back into their civvies and go to their next station. She pointed out the right booth in a line of furiously working makeup artists, handed the garments to the sewers and turned her attention to the other models.

Makeup was complicated. They had two artists working in their alcove and there were already models in their chairs, so Crowley queued up and watched. This was one of those elaborate makeups that looked like you weren’t wearing any makeup at all, with a lot of sculpting and contouring so they all looked like bronzed goddesses with chiseled faces and deep set eyes. 

When it was their turn in the chair the artist asked for their number, then muttered, “Five five… Yep, Five’s wearing gold.” He worked meticulously, tickling Crowley’s face with their gentle brushes, moving their head this way and that as he applied his creams and powders. When he was done they pointed across the room to a different cubby with a hair stylist working on the girls who they’d just watch get their makeup done. The first was just finishing, hers was slicked back in a severe top knot. The next girl had shorter hair in a bob that was straightened and trimmed a bit, but it went quickly, and then it was Crowley’s turn in the chair. Theirs was apparently left in a half up-do, with the hair framing their face twisted into a roll and pulled back, the rest left to cascade, though the hair stylist re-curled most of it in more defined large waves. 

Then it was back to Maya, who had them strip to skivvies and wait. They folded their clothes up and zipped them inside the #5 garment bag, wrapping their pants around their powered down phone to conceal it. Theft was not unheard of. A lot of models were 16 and stupid.

The tailors finished before they had a chance to get cold, and Maya pronounced Crowley finished and had them line up by the stage. There were four lines of models forming, with tacked up signs labeling them. Crowley was the second in the Savage Roses line, though the other model was number 12, so Crowley stood in the front of the line. As the other models arrived they sorted themselves into the right order. Two of the other lines finished up and did their walks. Security arrived with boxes and Maya placed the jewelry on each of the girls in order. Crowley was positively dripping with gold when they were done, with at least one ring on each finger, some with pink and purple enamel, and long chains with set stones and beads down their front. Their bracelets were chunky, ornate things, with swooping lines and filigree, and they also got a matching hair clip on the back of their head

They were incredibly mindful of the rings, as a few were loose, and if one slipped off unnoticed they’d be liable. That was not something they wanted to pay for. 

Time to walk. The lights were bright and only the first two rows of people were visible of the audience as they lined the catwalk, a black, glittery walkway down the center of the room, only a foot or so elevated off the floor. Chin up, pout the lips, stare into the distance, sway those hips and stomp, stomp, stomp. They reached the end of the catwalk and posed, fanning their fingers to display the rings on one hand and sensuously tracing a finger down their sternum, along the edge of their necklaces with the other. The snick of shutters going off as the photographers crowded at the end snapped their shots, and Crowley made eye contact with each camera for a brief moment. As they turned to stomp back one of the photographers set down their camera and winked.

It was Lucky. Crowley was surprised, but crushed any iota of it from showing, maintaining their expression for the catwalk. Once backstage they were hustled to one of the security guards, who logged in each of the jewelry as they were removed, and then the coordinator grabbed them. 

“Are you walking for anyone else today?” she asked.

“No, but I’m doing the private showing.” That was the official term for schmoozing rich people who touched you too much. They were disgusting affairs, highlighting the entitlement of the peerage.

“Right. Keep on the costume and report to room 117 for new accessories,” she said, then moved on to the girl behind them in line. Crowley left, navigating the hallways, and could have sworn that they saw Fell walk from one room to another with a group of men in suits, but didn’t have time to look into that. 

Staff was minimal in the new location, a small conference room filled with boxes and a few chairs. After the rest of the models had arrived they started putting on new jewelry, though the bracelet and hairpiece were the same for Crowley, there were only two rings and the chain was simpler. Fortunately these rings all fit better. They were all ushered into a ballroom and handed glasses of champagne. Some of the models headed over to the food: tiered canapes, little shrimps on skewers, caviar. That sort of thing.

Amateurs. Their job was to mingle and upsell, which you can’t do with garlic breath and a mouthful of expensive seafood. The champagne was so they looked approachable, not really for drinking, though at this sort of event the wealthy rarely had any inhibitions about approaching their lessers. 

Within minutes of walking into the center of the room Crowley was approached by an old man in a tux who smiled and started talking to them of how lovely their hair was, and how good the gold looked in it as he touched one of the coiffed locks. They smiled, and spoke of how the graceful curves in the metal set off curly hair especially well, asking if they had any curly haired special women in his life.

Because they were a professional, and knew how to work a room. 

Five inane, sycophantic conversations later and they were joined by Lucky, who sidled up while they were praising the long fingers of a forty-something woman who had taken a liking to the rings Crowley was modeling. He joined in, and charmed her even better than Crowley could, chatting away about the show and all the designers he’d take pictures of, how he couldn’t wait to put together the best of today’s entries for Vogue.

“And Birdie here might make that cut, with such marvelous jewelry, though I’m certain it would look better on someone with such dignity as you possess, madam.”

She chuckled, blushing, and gently swatted him with her clutch purse. “You flatterer.”

“I only speak what my eyes and heart tell me, truly.”

She chuckled, made polite goodbyes, and moved off. 

“My little Jay Birdie.”

“Always a pleasure to see you, Lucky. I didn’t know you were working this event.”

“I go where fashion is, darling,” he said, flashing his perfect pearl-white teeth in something approximating a smile.

“Of course, of course.”

Lucky pulled his face into an exaggerated frown. “But I’m sad this time, to see you, since you discarded me and tore up our future.”

“Oh! Oh no, Lucky I’d never! You are my favorite photographer and I was hoping to work more with you, truly I am. Madame Tracy got competing offers you know, and you just so happen to be out bid this time. If it was up to me I’d be all yours. You know how it is. Agents are so money focused.”

Lucky pouted, an odd expression that looked incredibly fake with his prominent cheekbones and chiseled chin. “I thought we would go places together, my little birdie.”

“I’m sure we will still, Lucky.” They placed a gentle touch on his arm. “I am the lucky one to have met you and worked with your great talent.”

“You are.”

“I know. And I’ve begged Tracy to talk more to you, see if we can work something out. Surely she’s still courting you, because I want her to.”

“She is, though I don’t like a lot of what she tells me about your new position at Dior. They’ll ruin you, darling. Turn you into a  _ cow _ . Have you seen their lines? Chunky, ugly things, full of bulk and heaviness. Not what a sprite like you deserves. You will regret choosing them over me.”

“Perhaps I shall, but we’ve already signed the paperwork. Come now, let us not spoil your evening with sad speculations.” They gently took Lucky by the elbow, slowly resting the fingers of the other hand on his forearm. Lucky glanced down at the touch and looked pleased. “Let me feed you some caviar on crackers and talk you up to a few more billionaires.”

Lucky chuckled and they headed to the food tables. He did feed the man a few of his chosen canapes, and Lucky spent the rest of the event glued to their side, grabbing their arm and holding it where it was when they attempted to withdraw, giving them a pat on the hand when they stayed. Crowley had to admit, Lucky was even more charming than they were, and was helpful in upselling, though it was odd that he was spending so much time with them. 

The models were recalled back to the security room to be un-bedecked, and changed out of their costumes, which they did in the middle of the room, right in front of Maya and the security guards, par for the course. There wasn’t much room for privacy when your job was to have people looking at your body. 

It was after nine, but finally Crowley was free to leave, and they were exhausted. Almost seven hours on their feet, in heels, but the most draining thing was the emotional labor of wearing their masks, being so fake. On top of that their one and a half carefully nursed glasses of champagne had done nothing for their dipping energy and sore feet, especially considering they’d had nothing to eat since early afternoon. All they wanted was to collapse in bed and sleep through the weekend. 

As they navigated the corridors they found Fell sitting on a pile of black cases in the staff hallways. 

“What in the hell are you doing? And how did you even get inside?” they demanded, crossing their arms. 

The bodyguard jumped, then beamed up at them. “Crowley! You look so sharp and shiny. How lovely.” 

They felt the burn of a blush, but blessedly the heavy makeup wouldn’t let anyone else see it. They knew they looked good, that was their job! Why did it have to fluster them so hard when he said it? “That doesn’t answer my questions.”

“I’m currently guarding this equipment. Is it time to leave?”

Crowley blinked. “Whu— uh. Yeah.”

“Just one moment, please.” He went to a room a few doors down, gave a perfunctory knock and then stuck his head in. “Amar, it’s time for me to leave… Yes, thank you. Here’s your walkie back… You too!” He returned to Crowley’s side and one of the security men in black suits stepped out, a laptop in hand and set up on the equipment where Fell had been. “Alright, ready to go. Shall we?” 

They started walking, but then they grabbed his arm. “Seriously though. This place is crawling with goons. How the hell did you get in here?”

“Ah. Well. Nothing sinister! There were just a few people struggling with equipment, and I offered to help them. They asked who I was and I told them I worked private security for one of the people at the event, and showed them my badge. They were very happy for the extra set of hands and had me moving equipment all over the venue. They were grateful one of the “front line” people was available because they get yelled at when underdressed staff go into rooms with guests. Mostly I moved chairs and ‘amps’ around, that's all. I didn’t think you’d mind, and I wasn’t otherwise occupied.”

They dropped his arm and started walking again, a bit sparkle-eyed. “Good thing you’re just a well-meaning angel. You are halfway to a massive jewelry heist with just good looks and charm. You’re a grifter to be reckoned with.” 

He gaped at them before finally managing to squeak out, “No! I’d never! I’m just being helpful.”

Crowley chuckled. “I know, I know. Come on, let’s go, angel.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have ya'll seen Ellie Mars’s amazing art? [She has a Snashion magazine cover! ](https://ellie-mars.tumblr.com/post/622013093795561473/hello-its-time-for-an-announcement-i-have) The way she draws Crowley is deliciously gender ambiguous and also, gorgeous. This art inspired Crowley’s first look while meeting with Anathema and the designers in this chapter. 
> 
> Next chapter is one I've been looking forward to since I conceived this story - Crowley goes to Aziraphale's defensive arts classes. It should hopefully be out next weekend, but just FYI, somethings going wrong with my organs. Doctors think I might be coming down with appendicitis. We'll see how the week goes!


	7. Chapter 7

The days were getting hotter and so were Crowley’s career prospects. The assessment with their vocal coach went great. Apparently they had good range and pitch, and the coach felt like with a bit of training and practice they would be a respectable singer. Not likely to be solo scouted into the music industry but good enough to join a choir or for a part. That coach also had them repeat things in a variety of accents, which was a nerve-wracking surprise. It made sense that Tracy would refer him to a vocal coach that was also a dialect and acting coach, but they hadn’t prepared for that. They hated being caught unprepared; it was terrifying, like being caught undressed. It went well, though, so they were very energized about it. Apparently, they had good elocution and did well with several different dialects. Their Received Pronunciation was rated as excellent, and they had lived in Scotland long enough to pick up that accent. They were on orders to practice on their consistency in Welsh, Irish, and American accents, as well as given a list of good resources to watch to hear those accents in a wide vocabulary. 

The coach declared them marketable as a voice actor and they set up regular sessions to polish their skills. Crowley was thrilled. Their career was taking off and they had new outlets to grow into. They weren’t just going to hit the big “two-four” and be dropped by the only industry they had experience in. They feared that they would age out of the industry and have no way of supporting themselves. They didn’t really have job skills in the traditional sense, and they would rather die than be a cashier or cubicle worker. 

Their first acting class was… weird. They spent a lot of time just doing ridiculous things, like pretending to be frogs and hopping in circles or repeating tongue twisters accelerando, but they also did a little bit of sight-reading and group critiques. They certainly weren’t doing badly at it, that was for sure, but it was hard to gauge if they were doing well. 

Anathema inquired after their bodyguard— well. Anathema inquired after their boyfriend when they arrived for their next meeting, and Crowley had to make something up about him running an errand when, in fact, he was waiting in the lobby. Very irritating. 

Crowley had tried to get him to wait a block or so away, or at the nearest coffee/tea shop, but Fell was all “It wouldn’t be proper for me to leave you vulnerable when I’m in charge of your safety. What if something happened?” 

Like that was likely. It had been weeks and there wasn’t even a sign of something suspicious. They were a third of the way of being rid of him altogether. Which would have been fine except when they arrived, apparently Alexis was still out at a supplier with Cass and the risk of them returning and seeing their bodyguard was too high. So they texted him to come on up, say they were running an errand but were finished. 

Fell had, even managing to come up with some cookies that he had “Just popped out to fetch” because he had “been feeling rather peckish” and offered them to the others. 

“Oh, don’t mind if I do!” said Anathema, then said around a mouthful of cookie, “Chocolate chip is my favorite.”

“I think I prefer macarons. Are macarons cookies?” Fell had replied. 

“Close enough,” said Crowley. “You like that they come in all kinds of flavors, is that it?”

“Oh, quite right! Very good!” he’d said with a happy shimmy. It was adorable, and Crowley smirked.

“You foodie.” 

Anathema grinned, looking between them and said, “D’aaaaaaw! You guys are adorable!” 

That set both of them to blushing. Fell averted his eyes and fidgeted. Crowley pressed his lips and resolved not to talk to Fell anymore during these meetings if they could help it. They were wearing more of their Fashion Week stuff while Anathema and Newt pinned and tried out trims. They were having a very polite argument this time about the volume of a skirt, and so had Crowley walking and doing twirls and things as they politely disagreed with one another. 

“I really just. I think it works better closer to an a-line,” said Newt, pushing his glasses up. “It’s lo-lovely, uh. Just lovely. But with a tighter, um. Tighter under-layer then the lace has more d-dimension, and you get the movement there, in the lace. Because then the lace. Um… Moves more?”

“But it also looks older! Less young and fresh! And more formal,” said Anathema. 

Newt nodded then shook his head while making a series of noncommittal noises. “Whu. I mean, Yes, that’s true. It is. But is that a bad thing? Doesn’t it just add range the… the show?” he squeaked at the end, his voice so high on the questions. 

“Hmmm.” Anathema pursed her lips. “Okay. Let’s take some video of Crowley moving in both. Then we can shelve this and look at it tomorrow. Give the ideas time to simmer. See what both ways look like on them when they’re not here.”

Newt readily agreed, so Anathema pointed out a path for a fake runway and stood at the end with her phone recording, down on one knee. Shows were never at eye level, so that wasn’t the angle clothes needed to look good from. 

That was another thing. All the Dior staff were using they/them pronouns now. It was nice. They texted Newt inquiring about the change after, and he apologized for saying something. Crowley jumped to reassure him that they weren’t upset, that it was nice, if their employers didn’t mind, and Newt reassured him that they didn’t. They had other non-binary models on staff in the main house who used they/them, so it was old hat even.

That was just terrific news. A weight off their shoulders. 

Afterwards, while they were heading back to Crowley’s flat, their bodyguard said, “So. When would you like to schedule your private sessions with me?”

“Private… What?” Crowley sputtered, mind suddenly firmly in the gutter. Images flashed through their mind of what private sessions could entail: Fell in their bed, slowly pulling off that bow tie and coat, his thick arms naked. Their pulse sped up. 

“Tracy has engaged my services on your behalf? I’m to be your defensive arts teacher.”

“Oh,” Crowley wrangled their thoughts back to reality, then joked, “So we’re engaged now? Not just dating?” It didn’t really settle their pounding heart, and keeping a lid on their imagination was taking up a good portion of their brain power.

“No! No, what I mean is,” Fell stopped, eyed him from the corner of his eye, then scoffed and popped his eyes in a roll. He continued primly, “You’re teasing me again, you cruel thing. I teach defensive arts classes on Sundays, and if you can fit it in your schedule, I thought it would behoove you to join in on my beginner one, as well as schedule some one-on-one time with me for additional lessons. I’ve been researching stunt work and how it differs from actual combat training to make you a curriculum that you should find quite satisfactory.”

“Right. Fighting lessons.” Crowley scratched their neck. Couldn’t hurt to start learning from the tough-stuff-creme-puff. They could always advance to a better trainer once they had a better grip on what it entailed. They’d never done anything like this before, and they could surely learn  _ something  _ from him. “You said Sundays?”

“Yes. Beginner class is Sundays at 11:00, then I run the Advanced Guarding Practice till about 1:30. I’m free after that.”

Crowley grunted. “Fine. I’ll go to your class.”

“Lovely! And when do you want to schedule our individual lessons?”

“After’s fine. Get it all out of the way on Sundays. Those aren’t very busy days for me unless there is a weekend shoot.” 

“And you’re fine with waiting for me while I’m busy with my advanced class? I wouldn’t want to leave you unguarded…” 

“Yeah sure. I’ll pack a lunch. Bring my tablet. Watch a show or something.”

“Excellent. Then I shall see you Sunday, unless you have need of my services before then. I’m at your beck and call!”

That proclamation tugged at something inside Crowley, really testing the lid they had on their filthier thoughts, but they ignored it and waved the man off. 

Sunday morning arrived faster than they wanted. They’d been watching YouTube tutorials on the basics of stage fighting and stunt work, determined to have  _ some  _ idea of what they were doing before others saw them try to do it, but they didn’t think they’d really made any progress in their tiny apartment by themselves. They didn’t know why they expected otherwise. Look at them. Twigs for arms. They had never even thought about throwing a punch, and they were partially convinced that any kind of somersault would end with their broken neck. It was uncomfortable to be this far outside their comfort zone. 

Their bodyguard arrived right on time, as usual, but—

“What. Are. You. Wearing?” Crowley blurted out as soon as they opened their door. 

Fell staggered back and stared at Crowley, mouth agape and face turning red, before blinking and seeming to finally register Crowley’s words. He glanced down at himself, hand spread, which only drew attention to the hideous tweed jacket he was wearing. It had black elbow patches and the buttons had popped off the cuffs and front. Under that were raggedy tan trousers and a dingy grey shirt. Several seams had clearly been ripped at some point and inexpertly sewn back closed, the uneven stitches showing and puckering the fabric. His eponymous tartan bowtie was present, but that was the only bit of his usual attire. “Workout clothes?”

“Work— No,  _ I’m  _ wearing workout clothes.” They gestured to their outfit. They’d dressed to present as a man today, seeing as their binder worked better to strap down their tiny titties than any sports bra ever would. They pulled their hair into a man-bun, a high top knot and thick sunglasses did a good job. They wore tight trousers, but they had a good stretch and were functional for moving around. “You’re wearing… a hobo professor costume.” 

Fell giggled and flopped his wrist at them, bashful as he raked his eyes up and down their body. “Oh, you… You’re not wrong, my dear. My outfit is certainly gauche. I don’t want to ruin good clothes so these are just some I picked up second hand.”

Crowley’s stomach fluttered. He’d called them  _ my dear _ . It was pathetic how much they liked that. They shook their head, getting back to the travesty at hand. “You can buy second hand activewear. Why a suit?”

“Well, because I wear a suit at work. I won’t be ready for a fight if I don’t know how to move in the constrictive clothing. It’s a handicap I need to overcome so it doesn’t overcome me, in the moment.” He chuckled. “The first time I tried to block a punch in a jacket I ripped the back open and was so thrown by it I got socked right in the face.”

“Oh.”

Fell nodded. “Quite. So I started practicing in a suit I didn’t mind destroying. Took me a while to learn how to account for the restricted movements automatically. Nowadays my students just appreciate the handicap and it’s good practice for me.”

That all made sense, they supposed, if it was a bit unconventional. Wait, a handicap for his students? Maybe Fell was skilled after all. 

They set out, and their bodyguard drove them all the way out to Croydon, to a run down area where they perhaps had never discovered that you can repaint things once they start to peel and some of the stores had boarded up windows covered in graffiti. He pulled into an alley behind the shops and parked the weird little cab by a dumpster, and the smell of burning and rot greeted them. Fell paid it no mind and entered a metal door marked “WFA Gym.” 

Inside was indeed a gym, dim and dusty-smelling, filled with black and grey free weights, and ancient equipment, as well as a few slightly newer cardio equipment up front, near a frosted window that was the main source of light in the place. There was a front entrance, though they had come in the back, with a teen girl behind the desk stationed there, and she waved at Fell when they entered. He waved back, and made a beeline to a door off to one side. 

It was a workout classroom, with a wall of frosted windows on one side and a wall of mirrors opposite, with chairs lining the edges. Fell sat his things down in a corner, emptying his pockets into a bin under one of the chairs.

Without making eye contact he spoke. “Y-you look very different today.” He fumbled while trying to plug his phone charger into the wall. 

Crowley wiped their suddenly sweaty palms on their pant legs. “Yeah. Ye-p,” they said, popping the P. “Is. uh. Is that a problem?” They felt their lip pouting but left it sticking out. 

“No, no. Of course not. I just. Well, I intended to do introductions for the class. How should I introduce you?”

“Just Crowley, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, of course. And should I use he/him pronouns?”

“Yep.”

Fell smiled. “Wonderful,” and glanced up, briefly making eye contact before hooding his eyes with his pale lashes. He closed the bin and went to stand by the door. “We’re early, because I like to be first to arrive, but the other students should be here in the next 20 minutes. I would recommend doing a few warm-up stretches, perhaps a few calisthenics. Don’t want you hurting yourself.” He waited there, hands crossed over his belly, a small smile on his face, with the excessive patience he’d demonstrated multiple times. He seemed stiffer than normal, perhaps nervous, and carefully avoiding looking Crowley’s way.

Crowley scrolled through Twitter while half-heartedly stretching, unable to be patient in a quiet, empty room like their bodyguard. Fell greeted each person as they arrived, making polite inquiries about their week and then introducing them to Crowley. They gave a wave and a nod and went back to the mindless scrolling. They were a diverse lot, with a range of heights and sizes. Crowley had half-thought it would be all old ladies and teens, or maybe only bulky bouncer types. It was a small class, with only a baker’s dozen of students, mostly young adults though a few middle aged people as well. They all did a few warm up moves of their own, which spurred Crowley to stash their wallet and keys in the bin their bodyguard had put his stuff, and leave their phone on the chair where his was charging so that they could take it all a bit more seriously.

“Alright everyone, you’ve all been introduced to our newest member. Since he’s here and very new to any of the defensive arts, I thought we should start with the rules.”

Jenna, a middle aged, muscular, blonde lady piped up, “The best defense is absence.”

“Yes, thank you!” Fell turned to Crowley with eyes sparkling. “That is the most important rule of self-defense. They can’t attack you if you’re not there.”

Crowley scoffed. “Is this a lecture about not walking alone in the dark?”

“No no no! Absence means if you can exit a dangerous situation, that should always be your first line of defense. So for example, If you are in an argument, and you think the other person might be about to make it physical, it’s better to leave the argument than be attacked. If you do get attacked and you can retreat, do it. Running away is a wise choice. Choose it when you can.”

“And,” said Craig with a mischievous grin, “Don’t be where the punches land. Dodging is winning.”

Fell gave him a side eye. “That’s very true. If you can’t retreat, dodge. If you can’t doge, parry. It doesn’t matter how powerful and debilitating an attack is if it never lands. Second most important rule?”

“Attackers don’t get to dictate the terms,” this was from Terry, a very big, buff black man. “You are the lowest of the low when you attack someone. Nothing is beneath you when it’s in self defense.” Terry looked straight at Crowley, brows down, intense. “Grab ‘em by the balls and yank. Throw shit in their eyes. Spit right into their mouth. They’re scum and they don’t deserve restraint when they lack it by attacking you.”

Fell hummed. “Terry is emphatic, but correct. There is no honor in being attacked, and no dignity in being hurt. Throw those ideas about a ‘fair fight’ right out when defending yourself. And usually, any resulting shock or hesitation can then be an opening for retreat.”

Nods all around. Crowley nodded as well, since Fell seemed to be waiting for it, then he continued, “So, for our session today I’d like us to pair off and practice dodges as our opener, then I’ll demonstrate a new parry and we’ll move on to practicing it. Alright? Crowley, I’d like you and Nina to pair up, since you two are the least experienced.” 

Nina was a young fat woman with short hair and tan skin. She shook Crowley’s hand as everyone else in the room paired up and spread out. Fell joined them. 

“Nina, if you would be so kind as to start with some straightforward, slow-motion punches?” She faced them and threw what had to be the slowest punch in history, a punch that moved by millimetres. Crowley easily dodged by leaning to the right. 

“Now. Both hands, a bit faster each time. Don’t go fast enough that you’d hurt him if you hit him, please. Especially not in the face, that’s his money maker.”

Crowley sputtered, feeling heat rising in their cheeks.  _ His money maker _ . They didn’t have much time to linger on that thought as Nina was throwing more slow punches. They successfully dodged, speeding up until dodging became a lot of effort, and their back started to ache from bending in so many directions in quick succession. 

“Alright, let's switch. Crowley, I’m going to coach you on how to throw a punch, and then you’ll slow-attack Nina, alright?” Crowley nodded, and assumed a boxing stance. Fell shadow boxed, raising an eyebrow to signal that Crowley should try, and they did. Nina easily dodged, and Fell corrected their form a little, manually repositioning their arms with his bare, warm hands. The heat on their arms lingered even after his touch retreated. 

Crowley threw a few more punches, but Fell looked even more dissatisfied, and Crowley felt the lingering heat spread to his face and ears. 

“Let me help, my dear,” Fell said and then crowded up behind him, wrapping his arms around them to grab Crowley’s arms. Crowley could feel the tickle of his curls on their ear, the softness of his belly brushing up against his back. His strong arms felt firm where they pressed into Crowley’s as he moved him like a puppeteer, punching with one arm and then the other in a slow rhythm. It set their nerves alight, sending bolts of pleasure between their legs, and they felt themselves getting stiff and wet.

“See?” he whispered, each word ghosting across their skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “You need to keep your elbows tucked, even when swinging, and rotate as you extend. You lose force and telegraph your intentions when your elbows are out.” They moved him for a few more punches and then dropped his arms, but lingered behind them. Crowley could smell him: musty, a bit salty, and like summer sunshine. They shivered and fought the urge to lean back into his embrace.

“Go on, give it a few goes,” Fell said gently. 

Crowley did, and Fell nodded, pleased, and backed off. Crowley felt bereft, struggling to pay attention to what they were doing instead of watching Fell. He ambled around the room, giving suggestions and corrections to the other students, leaving Crowley to attack Nina until she called for a break and they swapped roles. It was a lot harder to let their eyes trail Fell around the room when they were being attacked, even slowly. Yet they still found themselves struggling to catch glimpses of him as he worked with his students. 

Why? They couldn’t imagine. Prissy little punching pansy, all smiles and no teeth. Crowley sighed. They were a complete amateur, and even the few corrections he’d given were valuable. Their elbows felt less awkward and their motions smoother now. This cotton blossom of a man knew at least a little of fighting and they had at least something to learn from him. 

“Okay, enough of that.” Fell clapped, and everyone gathered around him. “Let’s all learn something new. A parry!” He grinned. How was he able to beam joy like that? Ridiculous man. “Dinesh, you’re our most advanced student, come demonstrate with me?”

Dinesh, a burly brown man with a very lush, braided beard stepped up, and Fell continued. “For this parry, we’ll be throwing jabs.” He turned to Crowley and demonstrated little rabbit punches, then extending them farther and faster like the punches he’d just shown them. “Like we just practiced. Use a variety! Mix it up. Aim for anything above the navel. But start slow. I don’t want anyone getting walloped! Right. So, this is called a low parry or seconde parry, and it’s used in quite a lot of the martial arts. To parry these jabs, you make a sweeping half-circle and push the punch outwards, so that it goes past your body on the outside, harmlessly.”

He gestured “come” and Dinesh threw a slow punch, and Fell demonstrated the parry. “This is a good parry because it leaves an opening for a riposte, and if your opponent doesn’t withdraw fast enough, they are usually off balance as well. When they throw a cross or you use opposing hands, you’ll need to step as you parry. Be very aware of your body and it’s position!” That wasn’t a problem for Crowley, who was struggling to be  _ less  _ aware of their body and all of its reactions. “If you don’t push the parry far enough, it will land, and if you push it too far you might over-extend.” He demonstrated a few times, having Dinesh throw several punches in a row. Fell turned them loose to slowly punch and parry one another, and he circled the room with his hands clasped behind his back, occasionally offering gentle correction, self-satisfied and smiling. 

Crowley had a hard time with it, always feeling awkward and definitely twisting their elbow the wrong way at one point. They continued until class ended. Nina and several of the others encouraged them and said their goodbyes and “I’ll see you next week” and it was all a bit too… nice. 

“Your jabs are improving! And that’s a more advanced parry, so we’ll probably go over some of the simpler ones in our one-on-one practice, but not this week, I think. I have to get ready for my advanced group now. Are you sure you’ll be fine waiting? It’s not very enlightening for beginners to watch. It’s not a teaching class, it’s a practicum and rather fast-paced.”

Crowley waved off Fell’s concerns. “I can entertain myself. I’ll just grab a seat, hang out.”

Fell still looked worried, but acquiesced. “If you are sure. Please make sure you hydrate, perhaps eat a snack— it’s best to eat some protein after a workout. You have to keep your energy up. I thought we’d do some sword fighting today, start out with a plethora of the kinds of skills used on stage.”

Crowley shrugged with one shoulder. “Sounds fine to me.” Fell excused himself and left. After a bit he returned with two waters, handed one to Crowley, and quaffed his. Crowley sat in the chair beside their things, idly playing on their phone. Fell stretched, rather thoroughly. As new students arrived they greeted him warmly and joined him in warming up. There were even less this time, only nine, and they were all bulkier and scarier looking than Fell. 

“Today we’ll do more role-play activities.” Fell announced, and Crowley muffled a snicker by biting their lip.  _ So he likes to role-play, eh? _ “Same as last week okay with everyone? Anyone who manages to get a score of 0 will go up against me.” Nods all around. “Wonderful.”

Crowley wasn’t surprised that Fell would only fight the low-scoring ones. This lot was way more intimidating than the slow-punching beginners. Fell sorted the group into attackers, guards, and guarded and they split into their teams of three and started their exercise. The moment Fell signaled the go-ahead the room broke out into a flurry of fancy kicks and punches from the attackers, guards defending against them in a rapid-paced dance of parries and blocks, shuffling their guarded people around the room. It was mesmerizing. It was like watching a live kung-fu movie playing out in front of them. Crowley was so stunned by the action they almost dropped their phone. Occasionally, one of the guarded would call out a point when the attacker managed to touch them. 

One lady  _ bounced off a wall _ to flip past her defender and score a point. She was a wiry woman, muscular and lithe and fucking hot, sweat beading on her pale skin and making her dark hair stick to it. She jumped back, avoiding a punch, and then just kept attacking. It was like something out of the Matrix. She was like a real life superhero and she just kept going, spinning and kicking as her opponent dodged and blocked, holding her off. 

_ Jesus Christ did he just suplex that guy? _ That time Crowley did drop their phone, hand going lax in shock as a different set of students stole their attention. 

“Joseph, that’s five points!” Fell called out. The guy who just got tossed on the floor mats groaned and the dude who put him there helped him up, dusting him off and checking him over. They joined Fell in watching the rest. One other man, a scruffy blonde on the defensive, managed to pin their attacker to the floor, and though she struggled, her thick muscles bunching and rippling visible even through her clothing, she couldn’t get up. 

“Booker, that’s enough. Good job!” Fell called, and he let her up. Only one group was left dancing about the room, the hot woman still ferociously advancing on the brown man who Crowley had thought had kind eyes before they became focus, intense ones. Their guarded person called out a point and the three of them stopped. 

“Good job, Andy and Leslie! Small rest and then we’re switching roles.” The students scattered a bit, some getting swigs of water, some having a sit-down, others leaning against the wall, barely winded at all. 

They reassigned roles and resumed. Crowley had to work to keep their jaw off the floor as another person got tossed. One person slid between their defenders legs to score. The first to end was the hot lady again, pinning her attacker like Booker had.

“Looks like Andy will be my first opponent!” The hot lady grinned and held a triumphant fist up. 

_ Wait, what? _ Crowley blinked.  _ He’s gonna fight her? _

The rest of the matches ended, they had a small break again, swapped roles, and started back up again. Only three of the nine people were selected to fight Fell. The rest joined Crowley along the wall reclining in chairs and betting on how long Andy would last. The big burly lady sat down right next to Crowley and grinned at them. 

“Hey new face. You just here to watch?” she asked.

“Uh. Yeah. Fell is tutoring me afterwards,” Crowley answered. 

She whistled low and quiet. “Nice. That’s lucky, being tutored by Darling. You’ll be kicking ass in no time. I’m Jesse.”

“Crowley.” 

“A pleasure, Crowley.”

“Likewise, Jesse.”

Fell got into position, facing Andy with the other two being guarded behind him. He nodded, and Andy launched herself at him, roaring as she put her whole weight behind a punch. Fell easily sidestepped and brought his arm up, deflecting the blow harmlessly past him. She pivoted and dropped, attempting to sweep his feet, but Fell just dodged with a hop. She renewed her effort, punching with both hands in rapid succession, but Fell parried each of the blows, forcing  _ her  _ to take a step back as he did. Crowley’s heart pounded, throbbing their whole body as they leaned forward, entranced. 

_ Fucking Christ. _ Fell had barely moved at all, and one hand was still casually resting at the small of his back. Andy jumped, a roundhouse kick aimed squarely at Fell’s head and he caught it, pivoting her foot and knocking her off-balance. She landed on bent elbows and bounded back up, flipping as she tried to go around him, get a hand on one of the two others. He went on the offensive a little, jumping in font of her and knocking her off-balance. She fell to her arse on the floor.

Fell wasn’t even breaking a sweat. He was just letting her keep going, looking proud even as she lobbed attack after attack. 

_ He’s toying with her, letting her try. He could end this at any time _ . That thought set the pounding of their heart distinctly lower, thumping deep inside them. They pressed their thighs together, seeking stimulation unconsciously. _ Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. That’s so hot. He’s so strong. He could take any of us down if he wanted to.  _

Andy was getting tired, flagging, and Fell grabbed one of her punches, twisted somehow, flipped her around, grabbed her other arm, and then slammed her to the floor and pinned her there. She struggled, futilely, her back to his front and the sight of Fell’s muscled bulging as he held her down burned into Crowley’s mind. They felt their eyes unfocus as they blew wide. Visions swam before their eyes of those arms grabbing Crowley, holding them just where Fell wanted them, moving them wherever he pleased, and Crowley would just have to take it. Those kind eyes, brimming with pride like they were now, but looking at Crowley as they pressed their fingers into their arms, their thighs, gentle only because he felt like it, brimming with strength. Would he thank them, call them my dear as they bent them in half and—

Andy gave up, and Fell let her go. He started talking technique, something about her favoring her weight on her dominant foot, whatever that meant. 

“He’s good right? I can see you’re impressed,” Jesse leaned in to say.

Crowley tried to speak, but only a few consonants came out. They cleared their throat, needing to rustle up enough moisture to speak. It felt like all the liquid in their body was soaking into their underwear. “Yeah, he is something.”

“We’re fortunate he hasn’t moved on to greener pastures. I’ve been working with him on the weekends at The Commodore as a bouncer for years and years now. Wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be as strong as I am now. Why he hasn't been poached by a rival company, or joined MI6 or something, I’ll never know.” Jesse sighed. “He’s by far our best.”

The next bout started, Booker throwing his all into it. He managed to grab Fell’s arm but Fell just shifted his stance wider and dislodged him with a chop to the midriff that had Booker almost doubling over. His white curls swayed and bobbed as Fell dodged blow after blow aimed at his head and neck. He was just starting to break a sweat, and some of his cotton fluff hair was sticking to his temples. 

_ Oh, fuck, I bet his curls are soft. I bet all of him is so soft. I bet even the hair at the base of his cock is soft. Unless he doesn’t want to be. Then he’s all muscle. Thick, hard muscle, bunching and tensing when he thrusts. Fuck, I want that. Wanna see that thick gorgeous arse clenching and bouncing. I want to grab that hair like a lifeline. _

Fell ended this bout by gently but firmly pinning Booker in a bear hug. What would it feel like to be trapped like that, pressed against his body from head to toe? They’d already felt it a little, the memory of earlier coming back to him, feeding into the fantasies. Would those hands be rough and calloused or soft? What would it feel like to be caressed by them, to be grabbed by them? Thank someone they were sitting down already, their legs were like jelly from all this. While they were at it, thank past-him for wearing an absorbent cloth packer, because otherwise they might have soaked through their trousers.

They weren’t sure they were going to make it through the last match. They took back every belittling thought they’d ever had. Fell was a god. A beast. A guardian angel. 

They had never wanted to be railed so badly in their life. They ached for it.

Fell won the last match as easily as the others and then  _ straightened his goddamn bow tie _ , which had no business being as hot as it was. No one had broken through his defense, not even once. Class ended, and a few lingered to talk to Fell before they too left, and it was just the two of them. Alone. 

Fell stood over them, smiling down. “Ready for our session, sir?”

They shivered, tingling between their legs. Fuck.  _ Call me sir again. Let me tell you what to do and l promise I'll make it good for you. Let me tie your wrists with that thrice-dammed bowtie and have my way with you. Or wear it and nothing else as you get on your knees for me.  _

“Crowley?”

“Ngk?”

“Do you need a minute?”

They needed a few hours, privacy, and their toy collection. “Uh… Yeah… Bathroom?”

“Oh, sorry. There’s bathrooms in the locker rooms, just across the main floor. I’ll go grab our equipment and be right back. There is a vending machine, would you like a beverage or other refreshment?”

Crowley shook their head and Fell left, his plush pink lips puckered in concern. 

_ Get your shit together, Crowley _ . They slapped their cheeks, trying to get their blood to flow somewhere other than southward. They rose unsteadily to their feet and bounced a little, regaining control of their wobbly legs. The locker rooms were where Fell had said, and Crowley started to head for the women’s when they remembered their outfit and changed course. They peed, staring at the stained floor to get their mind back where it needed to be. Nothing like a dingy bathroom to banish sexy thoughts, though they were still half-hard after they washed their hands and returned. 

Fell was waiting with two wooden canes, of all things, and handed them one. 

"These make excellent and inconspicuous practice swords, but since you're an amateur I must advise you not to aim for anyone's head with it. God forbid someone manage to land a blow when we don’t have any protective gear on. Follow my lead and I'll show you a few basic moves, then we'll practice those.” Crowley nodded and Fell’s face softened into a small smile. “Lovely. En guarde.” 

Fell assumed the posture and Crowley tried to mimic it, feeling awkward. Was ones other wrist supposed to be so limp back there or was that just Fell’s “very gay” shining through? He may not be wearing the pocket square today, but it was always good to remember that Crowley was not someone a “very gay” man would want. Crowley had let themselves get to carried away today.

Fell demonstrated and named a few moves: a lunge, a retreat, a sweep, a parry. Crowley did their best to copy, and Fell praised their efforts. Which wasn't helping them concentrate, they were blushing so hard already they thought they might bust a vein and every time the man said something complementary it rang through them like a bell. 

"Your stance is erratic, and foot positioning is rather important. You want to present as narrow of a target as you can, which in your case is quite narrow indeed. Always keep your torso sideways. Back foot should remain perpendicular to the front foot and torso."

Crowley adjusted, wobbling at the unfamiliar posture, and looking to Fell, who gave them an encouraging nod and grin. Fuck, that prissy little mouth was always smiling, why did it have to make them light up inside when it was directed at them? They repeated the drills a few times until Fell was pleased, then moved on to sparring. 

"Go ahead. Give me a slow attack," Fell said.

"How come you never attack?"

"Pardon me?"

"Well, like earlier with your students, you were always on defense."

"Ah. I do prefer to be on the receiving end."

_ Bloody hell. _ Their mind went white. They hadn't thought they could blush any harder but it turns out they could.  _ He could not mean it that way… Could he? _

Fell continued, oblivious. "I hate feeling like I'm the bad guy, even when it's just play pretend for class. To be honest, I usually have to think that I'm trying to rescue the guarded person in order to drum up the motivation to go on the offensive."

"That's so…" Adorable. Sweet. Perfect. Hot. "Very like you."

It was Fell's turn to blush, the pretty pink of his cheeks kissed by his pale lashes as he lowered his eyes and dipped his chin. It made a little wrinkle appear on his neck, and Crowley stared at it, wanting to kiss it so badly. The moment lingered, finally broken when Fell cleared his throat, resumed his fighting stance, and beckoned. Their "swords" cracked as they connected, and Fell moved into a few different attacks, some high, some low, and Crowley blocked each. It was rather fun, to be honest. They felt like a kid again, playing pretend, and found themselves grinning and getting into it, Fell returning their enthusiasm. Towards the end they’d even found themselves giggling after executing a successful block or parry. Their hour and a half of practice flew by. 

They helped Fell clean up and put things away, curious about the dusty storage closet filled with what appeared to be mainly boxing gear. When they got into the car they realized they could smell Fell, the sweat and musk of their workout just on the edge of their awareness. They craved it, wanted it to be on them, the product of shared exertions staining them. 

On the drive home, Crowley felt buoyant and chatty, and asked "So how did you get into all this? You are obviously no amateur."

"Oh, that's a long story."

" 'S a long drive back into the city."

Fell sighed. "Fair enough. When I was a youth my parents wanted me to get more involved in physical activities, but I'm not really much of an athlete. They forced me to join in several sports but I always failed quite spectacularly at them. Eventually, I discovered that I enjoyed fencing, and was rather good at it even. Before… before I was on my own I was ranked in the top ten in the British Youth Championships. My family were very pleased that they finally had something they could be proud of me for, so it was the one hobby they actually encouraged me at." His lip wobbled and he pressed them together, focusing intently on the road ahead as he drove for a long moment. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry." Crowley wished he could offer him more comfort. A hug, or a touch on the arm even, but since Fell worked so hard at not touching them, he didn’t think it would be well-received if they did. 

"No, it's quite alright. I wasn't expecting to have that reaction either. It's been a long time and it’s not something I talk about, usually."

"I know the feeling. You'd think about it one day and nothing, the next it's like it's a fresh wound all over again." Fell hummed his agreement. "Modeling was like that for me. My grades were never good, and all I enjoyed learning in school was astronomy but I'm rubbish at maths. My Dads had the bright idea to get me involved in the entertainment industry, and they had some stylist connections. They said I wasn’t good at anything but being skinny, so it was at least one thing I couldn’t fuck up. They loved it, loved showing me off to their friends, finally. Had me doing my first few gigs at 14, and they were the ones that pushed my career so hard. Little did they know they were handing me the key to the exit."

"I never expected my hobbies to come to anything, but while I was living on the street I carried a cane with me for personal protection. I ended up needing it more than I'd have liked to, but I was grateful I had the skill. I fended off a few harassers from the right person one night, and she arranged for me to start working at her nightclub, introduced me to the Sergeant, and he arranged more training at his gym. Took to it all like a duck to water."

Crowley chuckled. A little fuzzy duckling suited Fell, but it was hard to reconcile that image with the utter carnage he could wreak if he wanted to. A murder duckling. 

"It did surprise me how valuable all my ballet training was when learning the mixed martial arts."

"Your  _ what _ ?" Crowley said, mouth hanging open. 

"Ballet. I was never very good at it, terrible sense of timing you see, but I was one of the few boys in the whole ballet school and the only one strong enough to do the lifts. So I was always getting asked to help with that. The instructors were so grateful to my parents about it, I think that's the only reason they let me do it at all. They hated it. Hated anything to effeminate that I did. Which was quite a lot of things."

" _ You…  _ were a ballerina." Incredulous didn't begin to cover it. 

"A danseur or ballerino is the more appropriate terminology." 

Crowley smiled their most shit-eating grin. Fell glanced at them out of the corner of his eye.

"I wasn't a very good one, mind you,” he said. “But all the stretches and balance exercises and upper body strength I had built up gave me a leg up when learning the defensive arts." 

"A leg up," Crowley teased, pantomiming the can-can kicks with his fingers. 

"Oh, you're terrible." Fell said. “I promise you, I am a truly terrible dancer.” 

"No shame, angel, so am I. I can bounce to a beat but that's about the extent of my dancing skills." They shared a laugh that faded to content, companionable silence. 

When their bodyguard brought them home, he paused at the door, gathering himself, then said, "I had a good time with you today. I didn't anticipate how much I missed swordplay, or how fun it would be to teach you. I'm looking forward to future lessons."

"M-me too. You're very good at what you do."

"Thank you." Fell’s chin wrinkle reappeared, and with it so did the urge to kiss him goodbye. "That means a lot, coming from you. It's my pleasure to be at your service, sir." 

_ Oh, I wish you were at my service. I want you to service me.  _ “Pleasures all mine, I promise you. I’ve never met someone like you before. Someone who’s been through a lot of things like I have.” Crowley couldn’t look at him, instead fiddling with the door they held between them, half in and half out of their home. They blurted out, “I’ll message you, yeah? Gotta run some errands this week. Finally. So we can go run them together?”

“Of course, sir. Just let me know. I was wondering when you’d need to.”

“Yeah, right. ‘Course you were. Uh… Errands. Need to get run, errands. Maybe we can grab lunch while we’re out? You can pick a place you’d like to go?”

“Alright.”

“Okay. Good. Right… um.. Bye then.” and Crowley closed the door. They locked it, leaned against it and closed their eyes. All they could think about was those arms, wrapping around them again.

They were so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley: This better not awaken anything in me  
> Crowley: ... Fuck.
> 
> Personal note: I do have appendicitis or some other organ infection but it's mild, so I'm on antibiotics and bedrest and fingers crossed that clears it up and doesn't delay the next chapter much. Blessings heaped upon Itsthekiks who helped me beta and for cheerleading me through my many moments this week. I've had to work on my phone a lot and not the laptop. So many autocorrect errors were fixed in edit. >_<


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally earning our E rating, at 50k in! Ha ha! Slow burns. 
> 
> Last chance to place your bets on which of this mutually pining pair are responsible for knocking the rating up to M and then E in this chapter.

They shouldn't be waffling this hard on what to wear just to eat soup and go buy cheese, but yet, here they were, second guessing every sartorial choice they had to make in order to go out for lunch and a run to Tesco.

Except it wasn't just that, and they knew it. They were going on a date— well, a fake date with their fake boyfriend/extremely hot bodyguard. Who they were going to take to lunch, and watch him moan through whatever takes his fancy, then he'd push their cart for them at the store, they knew he’d insist on it. He’d probably call them "sir" with that pink mouth. Or maybe this time he’d say “dear.” Both were delicious and Crowley was starving for it. 

They couldn't just throw on a hoodie and pajama bottoms like they usually did when running their fiddling errands. But this wasn't work, or an actual date, so wouldn't it be weird to go all out? They stared into their closet, tugging at the various designer dresses and coats. Would Fell like it or would he be creeped out?

Fell would probably prefer Crowley as a man, being very gay and all. Being femme for work was enough of an effort, and they didn’t want to think about gender, so they usually didn’t bother otherwise. They just wanted to exist in the body they had, gender be damned, but that wasn’t the way of the world. They didn't really have much that was nice and made them masc, though— all their high end clothing was women's. They started pulling out anything that wasn't femme, stacking it on their bed. Couldn’t hurt to put in some effort, see if Fell liked it. No one was going to accept them in their weird, ambiguous natural state anyway. Maybe it wouldn't be as bad to pretend to be a man for someone they liked as it had been to pretend to be a woman?

With much hemming and hawing, they managed to put a moderately stylish and masc outfit together. Though the tight pants and waistcoat were women's, with a jacket over it they made them look broad-chested and sexy. It was too warm outside for a jacket, but they'd suffer for style. 

They looked best in eyeliner and lipstick, especially with their thin lips, so they did their makeup, but still felt like they needed something else to look polished and finished. 

After trying nearly every accessory they owned they landed on a thin silver scarf, tied like a loosened men’s tie, and a massive watch they'd gotten as swag from a designer after a runway show where it had been dented. (They hadn’t dented it, and the model who did had a conniption fit when he’d heard it retailed for 30k.)

It was almost midnight, Crowley realized, and their flat was trashed with clothing everywhere. They sighed and started the tedious process of cleaning up so they could get to bed. Their lunch not-date was in the morning, and they needed to get their beauty sleep.

* * *

When Aziraphale arrived to pick up Crowley, they— or he? Aziraphale wasn’t sure which was more appropriate. When they’d first met Crowley had said he/him or they/them was fine in private, but it felt odd to change what he thought of them just because they were wearing different clothing. Crowley was Crowley after all, whether or not they were dressed differently. That wasn’t to say that Aziraphale wasn’t affected by the costume change— far from it. When he’d seen them before their defense class he’d had to literally bite his tongue to control himself. 

Their male outfits were so… tight. So much of that long, lean body on display. It was all a bit much for Aziraphale, and he’d found himself breaking into a sweat just remembering it. For their first time running errands together, Aziraphale was expecting to finally see casual Crowley, but instead they were greeted at the door by the absolute  _ visage  _ of sexy elegance. He’d frozen as soon as he’d seen them, just as he had on Sunday, and again had to bite his lip to keep his mind on the pain, and prevent himself from tenting his trousers like a teenager. They were stunning and they sashayed when they walked, swaying their arse, every curve of which was visible in their painted-on, shimmery pants. The movement of a chain and tie around their neck kept catching his attention to the exposed skin there, and it was distressing how much the dipping neckline beckoned touch. 

Which is why he kept his hands clasped tightly to one another behind his back, at parade rest. There would be no inappropriate attention on his part as they walked to get lunch. Crowley had texted him, asking for suggestions, and together they’d decided to go to a ramen shop neither had been to before. This time Crowley had seemed enthused, so he was hoping it would be well received, and Aziraphale would finally get to see them enjoy a meal. 

The restaurant wasn’t very busy, since it was after the lunch rush on a weekday. Aziraphale got tonkotsu ramen and requested a shaker of shichimi togarashi with it, and Crowley said they’d “have what he’s having.” Then followed an awkward silence where Crowley seemed to be having trouble looking at him, and was nervous about something. 

“You are doing quite well in class, you know,” said Aziraphale, taking a stab in the dark. 

“I, what?”

“With your training in the defensive arts. I know it’s very novel to you, and it can be hard to be the least experienced, but you’re doing quite well. You have good proprioception and body control, so you’re taking to the movements rather naturally.” 

“Pro pee— what?”

“Proprioception. Kinaesthesia? Your sense of where your body is and how it’s moving.”

“Ah. Right. Yes.” They looked to the side, watching the people walking past the windows, and shrugged. “Model. Knowing where you are and how you look from someone else’s angle is important. Not that hard to consider your opponent’s point of view instead. I’ll have you know I’m doing well in all my classes. At least I think. Acting is a bit more…” they waggled their hand, “Nnnneeh.”

Their conversation moved into companionable chatting about how thing were going for each of them. Crowley was interested in the kids, who were doing fine. Warlock was still worrisome, but about to start classes next week. 

“I’ll miss the time we’ve had together during the day. What shall I do with myself, then? It’s so strange for me to not be busy. To be honest, I’m a bit scared of having a lot of free time, all by myself,” said Aziraphale. “Not something I’m used to.”

“Well you can always text me. I like to chat. If you’re… you know… If you feel alone.” Crowley plucked at their sleeves and seemed to dart glances his way, though it was hard to tell with the sunglasses. 

"Thank you, that’s very kind.”

Crowley groaned. “No. It isn’t. Not  _ kind _ . Texting is bad, terrible young people now-a-days, wasting their lives on their phones. I’m just saying. It’s an option… Friends text.”

Aziraphale’s heart beat a staccato song. “ _ Friends _ ,” he breathed. “... You mean it?”

Crowley awkwardly shrugged, all shifting angles. “Nnngk. Uh. Yeah.” They glanced up at him and then quickly looked away. “Don’t make this like,  _ a thing _ .”

Aziraphale beamed, trying with all his heart to transmit the joy he felt to Crowley, who quirked a grin in return. Their food arrived, and Aziraphale gave a little clap, thanking the server. He tested the aroma of his noodle soup, wafting it to him and sighed. It smelled rich and hearty, with dark garlic and sharp green onion contrasting nicely. He took the spoon and dipped into the broth, testing it. The warm liquid bloomed a rich umami flavor on his tongue, dark from roasted pork bones with strong, earthy notes and an unctuous garlic finish. The heat suffused him as he swallowed, leaving a complex aftertaste. 

“Oh! Ooh! Simply marvelous!” He took up his chopsticks and gathered noodles, slurping them up, humming happily as he chewed. They were just the right amount of bouncy and soft. “Excellent texture on their noodles, with a rich broth. And their onsen eggs are perfect! This place is as delicious as I’d hoped.” He took up the shaker and sprinkled a bit of the spice mix, adding a bit of heat. 

After a few more bites, Aziraphale turned his attention from his meal, and was surprised to see Crowley had not even made a move to pick up their utensils. They had a vague, far-away look on their face, the exact direction of that gaze lost behind the sunglasses. Aziraphale couldn’t have that. He set down his chopsticks and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his paper napkin. 

“Is everything alright?”

Crowley took a big inhale, held it, then exhaled slowly, like they were waking up from a dream. “Yeah. Yup. Tip-top. Why?”

“You’re not eating.”

“Oh. Right. Yes.” They picked up their chopsticks like they’d never held a pair before, and awkwardly tried to arrange them in their hand. 

That must have been the problem. “Would you like me to show you how?”

They tried, futilely, to pick up noodles several times, then groaned and said, “Yes.”

“Start with one. Rest it on the web of your thumb and the side of your middle finger. Then pinch the second with the pad of your thumb and forefinger, like this,” he demonstrated, and Crowley copied. “Yes, see, there you go! You wiggle the top one to pinch things, the bottom is an anchor.” 

After a few more tries, Crowley succeeded in pulling up noodles, but then froze with them held up in front of their mouth. 

“What’s wrong now?”

“I don’t want to mess up my lipstick.” They dropped the noodles and twirled them around their chopsticks, like it was  _ spaghetti _ .

Aziraphale scoffed. “That’s just ridiculous. It’s not Italian food. You can touch up your lipstick after, you don’t need to eat like a heathen.”

“It’s long thin noodles. Twirling works.”

Aziraphale huffed, “It’s inappropriate!”

Crowley grinned. “To eat noodles like noodles?”

The flood gates opened, and Aziraphale haughtily lectured Crowley on the history of noodles, the historical differences in their ingredients, textures, use in cuisine and the cultures surrounding them, as well as expounded the elegance of the chopstick as a utensil and it’s long and proud history, and it wasn’t so hard, was it, to respect the culture you were partaking in? The entire time Crowley just kept insolently twirling up noodles and eating them, occasionally grabbing a piece of pork correctly with his chopsticks or spooning up some broth. Which only showed that they  _ could  _ eat correctly, and they were choosing not to. They looked ecstatic. 

The monster. Aziraphale pursed his lips and said, “You’re doing that just because I hate it, aren’t you?” 

A lop-sided grin answered him. “Not at first.”

“Foul fiend.”

They looked dead at him, picked up their bowl and sipped from it. 

“Ha! I know you're just trying to be rude, but this time, you’ve played into my hand. That’s perfectly polite behavior when eating ramen. Bon appetit!” he raised his own bowl and sipped, managing to look smug about it the whole time. He closed his eyes, after, really savoring the flavors.

Crowley chuckled. They both finished their lunch, although Crowley often became distracted by something and forgot to eat, so it took them longer than Aziraphale. Crowley insisted on buying, saying something about being money well spent, and to stop fussing about them buying a friend lunch.

There it was again! Friends! They had taken him out to lunch _ as friends _ . He didn’t have any friends, not really, just a lot of acquaintances, and Aziraphale was over the moon about it. He giddily chatted to  _ his friend _ , Crowley, about all manner of things as they walked leisurely to the grocer’s. How Deidre had burnt the coffee that morning. The plot of the last two books they’d read. What his favorite flowers were for each season. Crowley listened intently, replying in kind if they could (“Who even notices which flowers grow when?” “I do!”). 

It was great fun. When they arrived at the Tesco, Aziraphale rushed to grab a buggy for them, and for some reason it made them laugh. Seeing them happy made Aziraphale’s chest ache. Oh, if only he could regularly be the source of pleasure for them. 

They started shopping in the frozen sections, Crowley tossing things in the basket and asking him about his nightlife (nonexistent, outside of working as a door supervisor for a pub/nightclub).

“Tell me about this pub slash nightclub?” Crowley said. 

“Oh. It’s The Commodore, in Soho. I know the owner. Remember I told you that I saved her from some ruffians? I owe her my life, I think. Rescued me from the streets, like the stray I was. Got me my job, paid to get my license from the Security Industry Authority, convinced my boss to hire me. She even introduced me to the Rainbow Promise. I’ve been working for her ever since, though fewer and fewer nights these days. I always work when there is a drag show, because I love getting to see them in their costumes, and catch up with the performers. But it’s hard to work all day and then into the wee hours.” 

“She means a lot to you, the owner.”

“She does. Maybe one day you’ll meet her.”

Crowley stopped in their tracks, whirling away from the food displays they had been perusing to face Aziraphale full on. Crowley replied softly, “I hope I do.” 

When Crowley started heading to the cashier lanes, Aziraphale called out, “Wait, you haven’t gotten any produce at all!”

They pouted. “I know that. What am I going to do with it?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Eat it?”

“Raw? Not interested.”

“You could cook it?”

“Doesn’t really microwave well, though, does it?”

Aziraphale’s mouth hung open, “Do you even  _ eat  _ vegetables?”

“Of course I eat vegetables, what a stupid question. There’s vegetables in those!” They waved their hand at the microwave meals in their cart. 

God herself could not have kept the horror Aziraphale felt from showing. 

Crowley crossed their arms, frowning. “What do you expect? I’m busy. I eat out a lot. I can’t cook. I don’t even own a burner if I wanted to try to.”

Aziraphale scoured his memory of their flat and realized that was true, and then realized that the blush on their cheeks was from embarrassment. “I apologize. I don’t mean to be judgmental.”

He would just have to make him some delicious vegetables that were served cold. Maybe a ratatouille? Or Vichyssoise? Watermelon salad? He watched and cataloged each of Crowley’s purchases, to help him later divine what kind of food they might enjoy. He was certainly going to make them  _ something _ .

* * *

From that point forward, all Crowley had to do was text “I’m hungry, thinking about going out,” and there Fell was, smiling at their front door to take them out. It was astounding. They loved it. Even if it wasn’t work, but just for fun, Fell was more than happy to keep them company, chatting away about anything. And they were so much fun. The most fun Crowley had ever had on dates. Well. Not dates. Friend dates? Did friends go on dates? Must do, how else would they become friends? That was on top of their professional outings, which were still several times a week. They had their classes and two go-sees for the upcoming London Fashion Week in the fall. Even though they were definitely going to be walking for K.U.D. they needed to book as many other runways as possible. 

There was one professional obligation Crowley carefully did  _ not  _ mention. They had a photoshoot next week for a line of lingerie, and so they had an appointment with their esthetician on Thursday morning. The  _ very  _ last thing Crowley needed was Fell just on the other side of the wall as they assumed a variety of extremely suggestive poses, fully nude, while a trained professional waxed and plucked all their nooks and crannies and then gave them a full body skin treatment. Bad enough that the whole process usually left them puffy and incredibly  _ aware  _ of their anatomy. They couldn’t handle adding a hot boy who could break them in two but was too gentle to ever do it walking them home like that. As it was, during that appointment they kept imagining what it would be like to be inspected like this by Fell, told how to shift and pose just so that he could see every inch of their body. What it would be like to watch him go through this same process, to soothe his freshly waxed, sore genitals with kisses. On their knees with an open mouth. 

It had necessitated a frenzied wank as soon as they returned home, and they’d still felt so… needy… that they’d asked him out to dinner that evening, introducing him to their favorite pub.

Their meeting with Anathema and the other designers was on Friday, and they were growing comfortable with this employer, as all their interactions had been good ones. Nothing to make them regret locking themselves into a contract so far. 

“Crowley! Lovely to see you,” Anathema called as soon as they entered the workshop. They exchanged air kisses and pleasantries, including Fell this time without much drama, though talking about their ‘boyfriend’ always made them blush. 

“We’re going to test some hair on you, Crowley, so we can decide how we’re going to cut it.”

Right. New, shorter hair was coming, which Crowley was fearful of but also looking forward to. They’d always had long hair. His parents had been very strict about them always needing to be very feminine, forcing them to hide any ambiguity, especially after they hit puberty. They'd never been any other way. What if it was horrible? What if everything they'd ever told them was true, and it would ruin them? 

Newt put them in a few wigs he had, but Anathema hated them all.

“They look fake and weird and unstyled,” she said. 

“Right. True… Because they are,” replied Newt. 

She wrinkled her nose. “Well what— Oh I know! You’re drawings! You make such realistic art, Newt. Can you draw Crowley with different styles, so we can choose from that?” 

“Sure, sure. Come on Crowley, we’ll sit in reception for that. More comfy.”

Newt fetched supplies, and Fell leapt up from the couch to stand at the entrance like the door supervisor he was. Crowley rolled their eyes at him and sat on the now-vacant couch. When Newt returned he tripped on the rug, sending his pencils and sketchbooks flying. 

Fell scurried to check on Newt, who was fine, and together the three of them collected the spilled equipment. Crowley got the sketchbook, which had fallen open. It landed on a drawing of Anathema, in one of her own designs for next season, but standing windswept and strong. She looked gorgeous, practically a glowing ideal version of her, posed to radiate self-confidence and power. Like a goddess.

“This is really lovely, Newt,” Crowley said, holding out the sketchbook. 

“Oh, wha—” he said, cutting himself off when he saw the page. He snatched the book and covered it quickly, flipping to a blank page while turning beet red. “Thank you, yes, never mind that, it was nothing, nothing at all.” He fiddled with his glasses, trying to straighten them but only really managing to knock them more askew. Finally he gave up and retrieved his pencils from Fell. 

“Okay. Um… Uh… That is, ah, would you sit on the edge of your seat and face me three-quarters view?” Newt asked, a bit squeaky.

Crowley assumed the requested pose and held still as Newt sketched. It took about a half an hour, during which they just watched Anathema hand detailing her looks. They were really coming together, the exact kind of elaborate, finicky and yet overall aesthetically pleasing and cohesive garments that walked a couture runway. They liked this season’s lace designs and the way they played with textured overlays. Attaching black rhinestones added an underspoken glitz that they especially liked. Anathema took a break and went around the room taking pictures with her phone, and she snapped a few of Fell, who was very surprised. 

“Oh, is that not alright?” she asked him. “To use your image?”

“My image?” he asked, completely lost.

“For social media. See?” she showed him the camera roll, scrolling through a few pics for him.

“But why would you want me on your social media?”

“It’s all about the behind-the-scenes accessibility. It’s important to build brand loyalty and interest. Showing what our lives and processes are interests people. You have a good look and add a certain je ne sais quoi to our workshop’s ambiance. Your face isn’t visible in any of these though, you’re background for Crowley, but the two of you contrast so nicely I’d like to take advantage of that.”

Fell capitulated, making Crowley puff up in pride about it. They did look good together, and it was their styling that made Fell look as nice as he did. They were a cute couple— _ Fake couple _ . It was important not to forget that. Pair of friends. 

"Oh, these are both good options," said Anathema, looking over Newt's shoulder at his sketches. 

"Yeah, I thought I'd draft a medium and short length like the references you had," replied Newt. 

"Fell, come look. Give us the boyfriend's perspective on which haircut suits Crowley more," Anathema said, waving their bodyguard over.

Rose bloomed on the apples of his cheeks and he shuffled over to them. "Oh. Oh, I couldn't choose. They both look very lovely."

Now Crowley's interest was piqued, and they stood to look at the drawings. One was a bob, curly till right above the shoulders, a versatile look that still had enough length for styling. The other one was a short tousled look that was edgier, more styled and that looked rather manly on them. They were surprised he didn't clearly prefer the more masculine of the two. 

"That's such a boyfriend answer!" Anathema said. 

"It's not. I'm not… that is, I'm not... just being diplomatic. They all look lovely, truly," Fell said, pouting. 

"Exactly. You're so in love you think anything looks amazing on them.  _ Boyfriend answer _ ."

Fell spluttered, turning dark red as he gestured futilely, then retreated, hiding in the corner. Poor man, must be terribly embarrassed. Crowley was certainly feeling lightheaded with it themselves. 

After they finished with K.U.D., Crowley took Fell out for tea and cake, which was a gift to themselves. The way Fell dragged his fork from between his lips, so slowly compared to savory foods. The darting tongue, to catch stray crumbs and lick smears of frosting from his lips. The soft sighs between each bite. It was sublime. They would definitely be going out for sweets again. 

* * *

Aziraphale's days were incredible, and terrifying, and wonderful. He was struggling and yet, enjoying it in a way he never had before. He felt immensely guilty, eating out all the time with Crowley. If he bought his meal, he felt guilty for not spending the money on his charges, but when Crowley paid, he felt guilty for taking from them and not giving anything in return. He felt like he owed them so much for all the wonderful things they’d done for him, for all the time they got to spend together, but they would never let him pay for their meal. Never. 

It itched and dragged at him, the weight of the obligation building on his shoulders. And yet, simultaneously, he was so thankful. He loved going out, trying foods, being exuberant over their flavors and seeing Crowley smile at him across a dimly lit table for two, goading him on to enjoy himself. Laughing together with Crowley set his soul to singing, and they did all the time now. Watching them run their tongue across their teeth when they were thinking, watching them slowly sipping a beverage with a twinkle in their golden eyes, seeing them rubbing their full belly as they walked home and complained of overeating— these were all his new treasured memories. He replayed them behind his eyelids when he tried to sleep, caught himself daydreaming of them when he was with his family. 

When he woke up, he was excited to see Crowley, and yet he felt guilty for not working as hard as he had been. He was making more money, but it felt like he was being lazy, wandering around town with his friend instead of properly working. Even at his Defensive Arts classes, Aziraphale kept catching himself staring at them instead of teaching his students like he was supposed to. They were practicing blocking kicks today, which was a much harder task than punches, so there was a lot of falling over and form problems all around. It was important for Aziraphale to be watchful, make sure no one injured themselves, but instead he was panting over his friend like a dog in heat.

It had been wonderful to touch them last time. To stand behind Crowley and correct their form. The memory of the feel of their body up against his had tempted him to dip below the belt when he found himself alone in the car in its deserted garage at night.

He  _ didn’t _ , he would never. But he had very little privacy in his life and the strain on his body was becoming unbearable. Over the past week he had considered the kinds of lewd, public or semi-public acts that would get a man arrested. Which he would  _ never  _ do, of course. He couldn't afford to lose his licenses, his only means of supporting his family. But he couldn't seem to banish them from his mind, and they were crowding out all of his other thoughts at an alarming rate. He was being very careful at today's class to touch Crowley as little as possible, so as to try and keep it together. 

When his advanced practicum class arrived, it successfully distracted him, especially when he sparred. Focusing on his movement centered his thoughts, clearing his mind, so he sparred more than usual. 

Crowley had spent the hour and a half of the advanced class in the corner quietly staring. Jesse had chatted with them again, but he didn’t know about what, and after class he’d been too busy with his students to ask.

But then he was alone with Crowley again, and what he thought would be best for Crowley's education warred with what he was trying to avoid. Of course, Crowley's education won.

“I think for today’s one-on-one we should go over the different holds, learn the basic ones and how to break out of them. Next week’s beginner’s class is practicing grappling techniques, and they have more experience than you, so I'd like to go over the basics with you now so you’ll get more out of the class practice. Does that sound acceptable to you?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley swallowed hard a few times before managing to speak. “Sounds great.” 

The poor boy must be thirsty.

Aziraphale fetched them a water and reminded them that “It’s important to hydrate when working out.” Crowley downed it like a drowning man, and Aziraphale beamed, incredibly pleased with himself for catching that and helping them. 

“Shall we get started then?” he asked. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Crowley sighed. It was hard to read their expression, since they still had their sunglasses on as usual, but they seemed sincere. 

“Alright. So, there are many types of holds and they all serve different functions. Some are intended to subdue your opponent harmlessly while others are specifically intended to be painful, in order to convince your opponent to give up. Some can even be deadly.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “The ah… The hold that was used on you is the latter kind, unfortunately.”

“How would you know what kind of hold was used on me?” said Crowley, one eyebrow crooked up. 

"I saw the bruise pattern when we met. It told me all I needed. You were approached from behind from someone your height or taller, grabbed at the neck. You twisted to the right but your attacker tightened their grip and you passed out. Correct?"

"That's... Spot on. I'm impressed."

"Yes, your attacker got you in a carotid hold, which will deprive the brain of blood and make someone pass out in about 10 to 20 seconds. The problem is that more can cause stroke, brain damage, and death. In the heat of the moment attackers don't always time it right. Going by the ineptitude of the person who attacked you, you're lucky they stopped when they did. It is incredibly dangerous and no one should ever use them."

"Oh." Crowley looked scared for the first time when talking about their prior incident, and Aziraphale held the silence to let it sink in. 

"If anyone ever gets you by the neck like that again, God forbid, it is very important that you don't fight if you cannot break free in a second or two. Go limp, relax into it. The most important thing is to survive that sort of hold by convincing them to let go as soon as possible. Otherwise they could kill you by accident in the heat of the moment."

Crowley shivered and nodded. "Right. Okay. I will." 

"Good. Let's hope it never comes to that. We're not going to practice those holds, but I will put you in them just so you can recognize it if it is used on you."

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale circled around to approach them from behind. 

"Anything that puts pressure on this area of your neck is potentially dangerous," Aziraphale traced with his finger the area on Crowley's neck, and felt their Adam's apple bob high in their throat as they swallowed. 

He started with an arm across the neck, a standard stranglehold, being careful not to apply any pressure, then a blood choke, then others, naming and explaining as he went. He moved to the front and demonstrated more moves. 

"Lastly, if you would lay on the floor, there is the guillotine hold, which is very well known." Crowley laid down and Aziraphale joined them, leaning over their chest and hovering his arm above their neck. All he had to do was shift his weight to the hovering arm and it would have Crowley pinned. "This one is used in MMA matches, which I disagree with, but it means that even amateurs know about it."

Crowley started up at him, eyes wide, and slowly licked their lips, their mouth falling open rather invitingly, as their breathing became shallow and rapid. 

"Oh. Oh dear. I'm so sorry. I'm scaring you, aren't I? My apologies. I don't want to dig up bad memories." Aziraphale rushed to back away, holding his hand up entreatingly, and let Crowley get back on their feet. 

They were slow to rise, saying "No no, it's fine. Wasn't… wasn't scared." 

"Are you alright to go on?"

They nodded, a flush blooming over their neck, "Looking forward to it."

"Alright. Let's start with some clinch holds. I'll demonstrate on you, then you try to repeat on me. Ready?" 

"As I'll ever be," they said. 

Aziraphale started with a bear hold, a move that was basically an offensive-style hug, and Crowley successfully, if hesitantly, copied it. Then a reverse bear hug, then an overhook grapple, all moves that involved wrapping arms around each other's torso in a variety of positions. 

He listed all the ways that he could think of to use each grapple, babbling constantly in order to keep his mind off of the feeling of Crowley in his arms. Their hair smelled of wood, and their body of vanilla and flowers, like a dessert he was desperate to try. 

He wore a cup, because advanced class sometimes got rowdy and genital injuries were no laughing matter, but right then he was doubly thankful for it since it was preventing his slowly engorging erection from fully manifesting. No amount of thinking of his grandmother and baseball was counteracting the feeling of grabbing and being grabbed by Crowley. 

He was acutely aware that he was in control here, and nothing would happen, but when he felt himself slipping, thinking about taking it farther, about how easy it would be to pin Crowley down on the mat and rut into— 

"Oh dear, look at the time! I … I mean. Um." Aziraphale scrambled, looking at the clock on the wall. "We're only half way through our time, aren't we? Right. But I think we should move on from grapples, if that's alright with you?" His voice was strangled at the end, squeaking on the word ‘alright.’ 

Crowley looked disappointed, but nodded. 

Aziraphale sighed, relieved. "Perhaps I can correct your form from the punches and kicks we learned in class? Or if you would prefer to do more swordsmanship?" 

"I'd rather practice forms. Once I have those down I can practice by myself."

"Yes, excellent!" Aziraphale practically ran away, backing up till he hit the wall. "Show me what you got." 

Crowley did, shadow boxing and kicking for the next half hour. Aziraphale helped, and by the end they were able to correct their forms on their own, as they'd wanted. 

Aziraphale's erection, however, wasn’t complying with what he wanted. 

"Would you mind terribly, Crowley, if I used the facilities here to have a quick shower before we leave? I'm afraid I'm quite a mess today."

"No, feel free to freshen up. I should have thought to bring a change myself, since we're going out right after. Should I wait here?" 

"Please."

Crowley nodded and wandered to the chairs, pulling their phone out and ignoring him. Fell was grateful— they needed a cold shower to get through the rest of the day.

He grabbed clean clothes from the back of the cab and his toiletries and rushed to the locker room. Setting up in a shower stall he removed his prick from it's cage and it throbbed painfully from being denied so long and yet still so turned on it fattened up the rest of the way as soon as it was free. 

He hopped into the cold shower spray, raising goosebumps over the rest of him, but his penis seemed unimpressed, throbbing and bobbing as it willed. 

"Please, please just go away. I just need to… to..." 

_ I need a break. I need a release. _

Just once, to break the tension, couldn't hurt, could it? He gave up, turned the water to warm and wrapped his hand around his cock. It was so hard, so very thick and ready. He pulled at it, feeling the water tumbling down his body, slicking up his shaft. 

_ Oh fuck. Oh fuck yes. Oh fuck, Crowley _ . He jerked himself hard and fast, rushing to get it over with. His eyes squeezed tight against the water and the sight of himself masturbating like an animal in a public place, too pent up to be reasonable anymore. Instead, he pictured Crowley, wearing all the amazing outfits they had worn this week. Crowley smiling their crooked grin at him over cake. Crowley, pleased at throwing a perfect jab. Crowley's sarcastic head tilt he only did when they were alone. 

He was so close. Almost— 

"Fell?" Crowley's voice floated from the other side of the shower curtain. 

Aziraphale jumped, backing himself far into the corner of the stall and covering his shame with both hands. 

"Sorry to interrupt, I was hoping to borrow your deodorant. Decided to give myself a bit of a freshening up. Is it in this brown bag on the bench here? Do you mind?"

"No. Please, uh, h- help yourself," he called, squeaking accidentally. 

"I will. Thanks."

Crowley was right there. Right on the other side of that flimsy vinyl curtain. His hand started back up, unable to resist, even as he was mortified for doing it. He could get caught. Everyone would find out what a pitiful, disgusting creature he was, unable to control himself. Crowley might peek, might see him like this and find out how revolting he was.

Or would Crowley be happy, look at him coyly and offer to help? Would they like to watch, fascinated, and tell him to come for them, that they wanted to see him in ecstasy. Aziraphale bit his thumb, burying his face in the water's spray to muffle the sound of his orgasm, his cum rinsing down the drain as his hips gave their last jerks. 

Reality came crashing down on him, souring his stomach and making him shiver. What kind of disgusting pervert masturbated in a locker room to their charges, their students, while  _ they were in the room _ with them. Aziraphale was scum. 

He hurriedly washed and dried off, wrapping the towel around him and praying as hard as he could that the room would be deserted.

It was, his clothes and toiletries were on the bench where he left them, only the deodorant sitting apart. Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and thanked God for small mercies. He dressed in a hurry, rushing to put as many layers between his humiliation and the world. When he returned to the classroom, Crowley had found some boxing gloves in the equipment bins and was juggling a pair while trying to hold their phone. 

They had taken their hair down, letting it flow loosely, and had put on makeup that made their eyes pop and their skin glow. They smiled up at him, unperturbed. 

"Could you help me with this?" they asked.

"Y- yes. Of course. With what?"

"I want a few pictures, maybe a video, of me practicing. I think it would look better with the gloves, but I can't figure out how to get the shot as a selfie. Would you be my cameraman?"

"I'll do my best, sir."

One fang stuck out from their crooked grin. They directed him in how to stand, what angle with the mirror they wanted, and told him to just be prolific. 

"I'll suss out the good shots later, when I get home. They'll need touching up anyway," they said. Aziraphale did as he was told, and Crowley packed up when they finished.

"Where do you want to go for lunch? Whatever you’d like. My treat."

Guilt over owing Crowley even more warred with the lingering shame of having just masturbated to their friend in a filthy locker room, both vying to tell him how shitty he was for taking advantage of the situation. He should stop, should back off, get some distance, some sense. 

Instead, they went out for fish and chips.

* * *

Aziraphale got home mid-afternoon, which was perfect timing, as it was his turn to cook family dinner. He had traded duties with Wensleydale so that he was on sides, so he could make a double batch of all of them, intent on taking some to Crowley and claiming to have made too much on accident. 

When he finished, he packaged them up: a roasted corn and green tomato salad, French braised apple and cabbage slaw, and an entire tureen of Ratatouille. 

"Wow, we're feasting tonight!" exclaimed Adam when he came down and saw the spread cooling. "What's the occasion?" The rest of the family were trickling in, taking their seats around the massive dining room table.

"Oh, nothing special. Just felt like cooking extra today,” Aziraphale lied. “Wensleydale pulled it all together into a coherent meal plan." When he’d asked for the swap, Wensleydale changed his plans to be a main dish of baked fish, which he'd done an excellent job on, and he'd even made some yeast rolls. All together it was quite the spread for a Sunday dinner, completely filling up the table. 

"All I did was put stuff in the oven and wait,” said Wensleydale.

"My dear boy, you must give yourself more credit! You did all the planning, seasoning and prep perfectly, and executed it on time. That's commendable!"

The rest of the table enthusiastically agreed, calling out "all compliments to the chef!" As they dished out their plates and began to stuff their faces. 

"Yeah, I can't get bread to come out this good. Mine's always too flat or too chewy," said Pepper. 

"Actually, that's because your kneading goes wrong. You just need more practice," said Wensleydale.

"Knead to know!" said Brian.

"Need to knead to know!" said Adam, and they all giggled. 

After dinner the Them decided they were going to have a Smash Party, which involved playing some shiny, chaotic game on the TV downstairs. Aziraphale joined them, cheering everyone on, but not really able to follow the jumbled game, when he got a text. 

It was from Crowley. It read  _ Thanks for today, pics turned out great! _ with a link at the end. 

He clicked, taking him to Instagram and a picture of Crowley shadow boxing in front of the mirror that couldn't be one he took. The lighting was flattering, and the dingy, stained walls had been made to look pristine. Crowley was off center and zoomed in more than he had, gracefully framing the edges of the shot with their body. Oh and their hair, it sparkled copper and red, only setting off the gold of their eyes as they locked eyes with the viewer in the mirror. 

He tried to back out, but instead the button took him to the account’s page, and he was confronted with dozens of gorgeous pictures of Crowley. It was their professional account, listing their occupation and contact info for jobs in the description. He clicked the next pic, one of Crowley and Anathema in the workshop, posing together. He lost himself, completely forgetting anything else as he swiped from one picture to the next. They were all so lovely, so— 

"Oh, who's that?" Pepper asked, making Aziraphale jump. "She's cool."

Aziraphale smashed the screen to his chest, his face heating, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

"Oh! Uh… yes, quite."

"Uh oh, Aziraphale! Were you perving on some hottie's insta?" 

A chorus of “Oooooh!” echoed in the room as all the kids joined in.

"No!" His ears were burning. "Of course not. I'll admit I got a bit lost in thought, but it wasn't anything inappropriate. This is my client. They were showing me a picture I took today for them." 

Now he had everyone's attention, their game forgotten. 

"Oh, I want to see!" said Wensleydale. 

“Yeah, me too,” said Warlock. “They’re my style benefactor.”

"I… I suppose there is no harm in showing you," Aziraphale said, reluctantly, and pulled up the most recent photo. He held the phone out, showing it to all the kids who had gathered around to see. 

"Are you teaching them to box? That's wicked!" said Adam. 

"Among other skills. They're trying to branch out into acting, and I'm to help them with learning stunt work and combat basics." 

"I want to learn combat," said Pepper. “ _ Mortal Combat! _ ”

"Yeah, me too!" said Adam. "Teach us to fight!"

Aziraphale scoffed. "I shall do no such thing! Fighting is  _ not _ something you want to do, it's something you want to  _ avoid _ . But if you'd like to learn the basics of the defensive arts, I'd be more than happy to teach you those." 

"You're no fun," said Pepper. "But yes, teach us that."

"... Now?"

A chorus of yeses. 

"Fine. But we'll have to go outside, just in case. Wouldn't want to break anything by accident." And thus began an impromptu class of overeager 16 year olds in their garden making exaggerated swooshy noises as they practiced jabs and parries in the night. He broke it up at nine, shooing them off to get ready for bed. They had school in the morning, and there was no harm in looking at more of Crowley's publicly available photographs as soon as he was alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are _mutually_ pining, so yearning and yanking for both of them! 
> 
> While reading this my qpp/beta was like… we need ramen. And so we went and got takeout tonkotsu ramen like they ate. XD 
> 
> Also, my health is improving but then my laptop broke while literally in the middle of typing this story! And I had to disassemble it and fix it before I could edit, but it’s all good now. Obviously, this last month was cursed, so hopefully no more cursed Fuuma.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a heads up, this story has got some H/C incoming. Content warning for sexual harassment and other shitty cultural things in this chapter. P.S. Mind the tags.

When he woke up, Aziraphale would list all the things he would get to do with Crowley that day, which was every day but Saturday, when he got to spend the whole day with the kids. When he went to sleep he thought about Crowley. How they walked and talked about anything and everything. All the scrummy lunches and delicious dinners they’d shared.

Crowley had been speechless when Aziraphale delivered the veggie sides, only saying quiet thanks before putting them away. He’d spent the night fretting that he’d crossed a line, but the next morning when Aziraphale picked them up they had raved about the Ratatouille, said it made a perfect dinner with their normal menu of vodka and Netflix. 

Aziraphale had rolled his eyes but complimented them nevertheless, because it  _ did _ pair well with vodka. Crowley cackled, and requested things that paired well with a good scotch next time. They'd gotten roasted brussels sprouts with smoked lardon crumbles, which Crowley had choked up and sniffled when they received. It was the best reception Aziraphale could have hoped for.

According to the schedule Madam Tracy sent, today Crowley had 14 hours blocked off for a photoshoot, a very long workday indeed. Newt had said he'd see them there at their meeting with Dior early that week, so Aziraphale was expecting it would be similar to their first day guarding Crowley.

The call time was 8:00 am, the earliest Crowley had ever had to be at anything. They'd pressed their suit the night before, choosing one of the dressiest outfits he now owned, as instructed, lingering over the grey and purple velvet of his waistcoat. His vision got a little watery as he was overwhelmed with gratitude. He even said a quick prayer, thanking God for crossing his path with Crowley's, his first real prayer in a long time. 

Crowley looked impeccable as always in a black leather pencil skirt topped by a vertically ruffled blouse that hugged their curves and yet flowed as they moved, with puffy shoulder sleeves that gave it an almost poetic feeling. They had on bright red lipstick but no jewelry or other accessories except their thick black sunglasses. Their heels were several inches taller than usual as well, strappy spikey things covered in gold studs.

"Why do you dress up to then go get changed? And wear makeup when an artist is just going to undo it all when you arrive?" Aziraphale asked as they walked out of their building. 

Crowley rubbed their forehead and replied, "Because it's my job to look good."

"But it's stupid. And redundant."

"Oh, you are such an angel sometimes. And that's  _ not  _ a compliment this time.” Crowley stretched their arms out and continued, half-shrugging, “Because the industry judges you on your looks, so presentation is everything. Because they are all incredibly shallow. Because showing up to a job looking like a slob is unprofessional in all settings, even ones where  _ their _ job is to make you look good. Because reputation is the difference between working and not, and curating a reputation is hard, constant, redundant work."

"I see."

"... It's too early, I hate it."

"I'm sorry, dear boy. It is very early."

Crowley grunted, and bumped their shoulders together as they walked. Aziraphale smiled up at them and gave his own gentle bump back.

The shoot was in the city, in a penthouse at the top of a glass skyscraper overlooking the river Thames, and they arrived early. 

"I need coffee to function," Crowley grumbled, looking something up on their phone. They started walking, following the phone like it was dowsing, finally looking up and marching into the coffee shop they'd located. "You want anything?"

The mountain of guilt pressed down, clawing into his viscera. "No. No, thank you."

Crowley ordered, got their drink, and slumped into a wall by the exit to sip it. When they finished they threw the cup away, slapped their cheeks, and said, "Alright. Game faces on!"

Aziraphale straightened up and assumed a parade rest. 

"No no no no no. Not your bodyguard game face. Hot model's boyfriend game face."

"Oh, right… yes." He dropped his arms, moving them stiltedly for a moment before he settled on fidgeting with his pinky ring. 

Crowley sighed. "That'll do." 

Crowley sauntered into the building and up to the top floor, where crew were setting up in the hallway outside the elevator. They greeted everyone with big, fake smiles and air kisses, introducing Aziraphale as their chaperone only when asked. Newt was there, setting up in the kitchen of the penthouse flat they were working in, and Crowley had him stay there while they went to wardrobe. 

"Lovely to see you again, Newt. How are things this fine morning?" he asked. 

Newt yawned. "Oh, you know. Busy. Tired. Ready and excited. Normal."

"I didn't think you did this anymore, now that you're working as a designer for Dior."

Newt let out a nervous string of noises best described as a burble, but could be considered a laugh if one was feeling generous. "I'm on probation there. I could be terminated at any time. It would be very foolish of me to give up all my other work."

"At least Anathema seems to like and respect you. So it's going well."

"She— she does?"

"Certainly. She's always going to you first when she wants to talk about something, even though the other members of the design team are the veterans." 

Newt paused, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment, then putting his hands on his hips and looking at the floor, before finally saying, "Huh." 

Aziraphale left him to his thoughts, curious about all the activity. People were running about, calling things to each other from room to room as they set up the massive equipment in the hallway, the sitting room, and two of the four bedrooms. No one was struggling with anything or seemed to need a hand, to Aziraphale's chagrin, so he resigned himself to loitering. 

Crowley eventually emerged from one of the closed up bedrooms wearing a fluffy white bathrobe with four other models. Actually no, six other models, he decided as two bulky men in bathrobes joined them. This was the first time he’d seen male models at one of Crowley's jobs. 

The photographer and director started sorting the models and sending them to various locations. Crowley was sent back to wardrobe with two of the others. They returned later looking exactly the same, still in a terrycloth bathrobe, but heading to Newt for hair and makeup, so Aziraphale joined them. 

A cacophony started in the hallway, filled with calling voices and thumping music. Everyone ignored it, so Aziraphale did too. 

The makeup for their shoot was sultry, smokey and blushed. Aziraphale noted that Newt did in fact remove their red lipstick and then replace it with a nearly identical bright red lipstick, though this one had a strong copper shimmer. Their hair, on the other hand, was made to be massive waves, bulked out into a bright red mane that managed to look both flawless and unkempt at the same time. 

"Alright Crowley, time for body contouring,"said Newt, and then Crowley was disrobing. 

Aziraphale gasped. They were barely wearing anything at  _ all _ , just a strappy bra and knicker set. The fabric was red and black tartan, what little fabric there was, edged in black with more black straps up to the waist and over their bustline, which was much more generous looking than usual. Neither Newt nor Crowley seemed to care, as Newt went about brushing powders all over their body, but Aziraphale thought he might burn up on the spot. 

"Oh dear, you have some tape poking out," said Newt. 

"I do?" Crowley said, squatting a little and bending to look at their crotch. "Shit."

"I got it." Newt took a pair of scissors and pushed the front of their barely-covering-anything knicker to the side. Aziraphale’s eyes bugged out and he choked on nothing. Newt moved his head down close to cut something down there, blocking Aziraphale's view before he saw something he shouldn't. He turned his back before he had to add peeping tom to his mounting sins against Crowley. 

One of the other models who was waiting, a blonde lady with a button nose, snorted and said, "Uh-oh! Someone's serving roast beef when there's only supposed to be two beefcakes on set." 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what that meant, but the tone alone had him jerking back around to assess the situation. Crowley pressed their lips, and Aziraphale knew they were suppressing a glare, but didn't respond. The other model looked smug, and Aziraphale hated her. 

When Newt finished, Crowley looked more muscular than usual, and they put their robe back on and left. Aziraphale followed them out into the hallway, where the music and voices were coming from. There was a shoot in progress by the big floor to ceiling windows, where two of the models were in only their underthings and kissing as the photographer circled and the director yelled directions over to the din. 

It was weird, sexually charged chaos. It made Aziraphale uncomfortable, but Crowley seemed bored, leaning against the wall and waiting. 

He leaned in to ask, "So this is an intimates photoshoot?" 

Crowley chuckled. "Bloody hell.  _ Intimates _ . Yes, the photos are for lingerie ads. Product being highlighted is the women's lingerie." 

"Do you do these often?"

"No more than usual, I should think." 

"Why is it so loud?"

Crowley shrugged. "Some photographers are loud. I've learned not to question it the hard way."

"Hmmmmm…" Aziraphale went back to trying and failing to act casual. At least he caught himself before he resumed his parade rest. 

The director called a halt and the female model left, leaving the male model and photographer to linger. 

"Redhead up next," called the director. Crowley stepped up, and Aziraphale took their spot on the wall, trying not to stick out. 

The photographer stepped out of the mess of lights and fans and wires and sized Crowley up. He raised a skeptical eyebrow and frowned. 

"I don't know… Jake, Laurent come here." The two male models joined Crowley while the photographer made pensive faces and circled them. 

"What do you think, John? Blonde one or brown one with her? I don't want this to look too niche, and she's got quite the nose."

The director rolled away from the tables full of computers and monitors, made a grandiose gesture and said, "Brown is double dipping with that nose. Laurent you're up!" 

Aziraphale’s face went slack. How dare he?! Crowley’s nose was lovely! And they were standing right there! Horrid man. Crowley didn’t so much as bat an eyelash at the exchange, they just stepped into the stage area with the pale blonde man, who must be Laurent. 

"Scene is, you're culminating a seduction with your pool boy or whatever, right? But you don't make it out of the hallway before he's on you, he's too entranced by the product. Got it? Give me a power broker gone wild. And I want eyes on the product, not on the pretty girls, Laurent. Fans, go! I need more gold under-light!" The director yelled from across the room. A breeze started up, blowing Crowley's long hair around them.

Crowley threw themselves onto the male model, hooking an arm across his shoulders and pressing their body along his. 

"More titty!" Shouted the photographer, and Crowley angled their shoulders towards him. "Yes! Work the hair! Look at him like you're fucking starving!"

And Crowley did, gripping his arse and practically nipping at his lips as the photographer crouched in front of them and snapped shots. It was hard to watch the models work together, slamming palms on the surfaces around them and each other, while the photographer called out things like "Hot!" "Sex kitten, too cutesie. More lust, less innocence." "That's right, you want it bad, yeah?" Aziraphale tried looking away, but he still felt like he might throw up, his insides clenching and squirming.

"Now the legs, spread 'em like you want him to go there. Tilt that arse at me!" The click-click-click of the camera. "You got a flat arse, girl. You gotta arch that out, work it." Crowley did, curving their back so that it popped out their  _ perfect _ bottom as they rubbed their leg on Laurent's hip, ran their long red nails down Laurent's thick, sexy arms, bulging muscles glistening with who knew what. 

Suddenly Laurent was lifting Crowley up by the waist and then dipping them, as if they were dancing, or about to passionately kiss. The director screamed encouragement and Laurent repeated it a few times to the beat of the thumping music. Crowley writhed in his statuesque arms as staff hollered their encouragements. Crowley was giggling and swooning and petting Laurent playfully, enjoying themselves more giddily than Aziraphale had ever seen before. 

This must be what they liked. Gorgeous men with bodies like Adonis, chiseled chins and bulging muscles begging to be touched. They were doing so much touching, all over him. Aziraphale was so far out of their league, a poor, fat, gay man. Bile rose in his throat. To think that he'd ever entertained the idea that Crowley might like him as more than a friend. Men like this suited them much better. 

"Ok, enough PG. I want make outs. Suck those breaths like you want a dick in your mouth, girlie!" The photographer called out. Without realizing it Aziraphale had taken a step forward, fists clenched. That had to be inappropriate! That was workplace harassment, surely! 

No one else seemed bothered in the slightest, the models just opened their mouths and started panting. He backed up, unclenching methodically from top to bottom. No reason to be upset, Crowley was still enjoying themselves. After a few more passes Crowley even started kissing Laurent gently on the cheek and bottom lip, and the director actually whooped, calling for more. Each press of their lips landed like a blow, running Aziraphale's heart through a blender. 

The director called a quits and Crowley extracted themselves from the mess, patting Laurent on the shoulder and thanking him before they left, giving him one last kiss to the cheek. Yes, kissing someone like that was something they'd be grateful for, too, but unlike someone as beautiful and talented as Crowley, no one would want to thank him for the opportunity to kiss him. They pulled Aziraphale by the elbow out and into the sitting room, after putting their robe back on, where the other models were also lounging. It was getting well towards lunchtime but there was no sign of food. Remembering the prior shoot where Crowley had gone hungry, Aziraphale had prepared snacks. 

"Are you going to be waiting a while, si— dear?" he asked. He shouldn't call them sir at work, and internally cursed himself for slipping enough as it was. Just because he was jealous and trying to put some mental distance was no reason for accidentally outing them.

"Yeah, probably. Four girls and three locations, there's going to be a lot of waiting."

"Would you like a clementine?"

"Oh that sounds  _ good _ . Would you fetch me a water while you're at it?" 

"As you wish." He left to do so but before he'd gone far one of the other models spoke.

"How sweet! Such a diligent boyfriend. I gotta get me one of those." 

Aziraphale paused and turned. "Would you also like a water or clementine?"

The brown skinned lady with short hair and gorgeous green eyes smiled at him and raised the water bottle in her hands. "I'm good for now, thank you. You're a dear."

She was chatting with Crowley when he returned and handed them their water. He peeled the clementine he fished out of his bag, handing each segment over one at a time, and Crowley popped them in their mouth, mindful of their lipstick. 

Eve, the other model, was a lovely young woman who did take a slice of clementine, and chatted with both of them until she was called away. Aziraphale appreciated the distraction, finding it difficult when he was left alone with Crowley again. 

The next time it was Crowley's turn in front of the camera, they were working in one of the bedrooms, a high ceiling, elaborate space filled with feathers and crystal. Wardrobe had changed them into an all-black set and added a garter belt and thigh high black stockings, and they looked even sexier than before. Laurent was working with them again. 

"Get right in the middle of the bed, that's right," the director called out. There were no fans this time, but there were quite a few plants much closer than a normal person would keep to their bed. "You’re… AJ, right?" Crowley nodded. "Climb up over him, facing the camera. Mount the boy like you’re about to go for a ride." 

They did, straddling his hips with tense thighs, throwing their hair back and combing through it. They looked so debauched. Aziraphale couldn't look anymore, finding it too painful, unable to stop measuring the gaping distance between himself and the man Crowley was giddily straddling. 

This couldn't stop him from hearing the horrid things the director and photographer yelled. Vacillating between enraged and disgusted by them, Aziraphale had no choice but to stand there and listen. He couldn’t very well plug his ears like a child screaming “la la la can’t hear you” or cause a scene with Crowley’s employers over their crudeness.    
  
"Gorgeous girl! … that's right, suck that lip! … Now turn it around, show us the booty. … that's right you're hot shit. … Gimmie more face! … boy move your arms you are blocking! … Tone it down now, you look like a whore! … more kissing! I want to feel like his pecs are lollies and you want to lick them! … alright shake it off and tuck it back in gentlemen. Time to use the feathers. Like a pillow fight!"

They started tossing handfuls of feathers at one another, laughing and grinning and, oh, Crowley just looked so  _ happy _ , so confident. It made him realize that he had never seen them joyous before. He had never done anything to deserve the bubbling enthusiasm they were showing for Laurent. It was a whole new side, almost like a different person altogether. Crowley was always grumpy and quiet around him, granting him at most soft chuckles and sarcasm. 

When the director called the shoot finished, Crowley thanked Laurent like before, though this time the photographer chimed in, "Oh, no thanks to me? After all I’ve done for you. Where's my kiss?" Crowley apologized, thanking him for working with them and kissing him on the cheek. He put an arm around them and then his hand slid down and he patted them on the bum as they pulled away. 

Now that was definitely uncalled for! "That… he!" Aziraphale said as Crowley collected him. 

"Shhh! Don't say it!"

"But it's—"

" _ Don't _ . It's fine. It's normal, Fell."

He kept his peace, but seethed. Did it truly not bother them? Were they enjoying the attention? How could they just stand there and smile and encourage it?

The living room was being transformed into a set, so the models were sitting around the dining room table, waiting and chatting. Aziraphale itched to ask, was it always like this? Doesn’t that bother you? He fidgeted with his ring and pulled his fingers. Crowley certainly didn't look perturbed in the slightest. They had already said it was fine. They looked like this was fun for them.

It wasn't fun. It was distinctly not fun. This was torture.

Lunch arrived, large catering platters of maki sushi, which they set up in the dining room. Everyone stopped to get a plate, and even the thumping music paused. The models picked at it, and Aziraphale made sure Crowley ate this time, since the laborers appetites claimed the large share. The photographer lingered with them, and he smiled too much at the models. 

Smiling had never seemed like something one could do too much, but  _ he  _ managed it somehow. 

"Put some food in you. You're so sour-faced." Crowley handed him a plate. Most everyone else had already eaten, so Aziraphale did. It was decent sushi, but he couldn't seem to enjoy it. 

"That's the least enjoyable meal you've ever eaten," said Crowley. Of course they noticed, they’d been dining jointly everyday. “Don’t you like sushi?”

"The food is fine.” Crowley beckoned for more, so Aziraphale continued. “You shouldn't be treated like that. Like… Like that." Aziraphale bit rather aggressively into a spicy tuna roll.

Crowley sighed. 

"You shouldn't! No one should. Yelling about your… body parts. And that's not even getting into him touch—" 

Crowley shushed him, putting one of their long fingers over his lips. Aziraphale froze, forcefully swallowing his half-chewed bite as he seriously contemplated pressing a kiss to that finger as it rested there. He internally cursed at himself.  _ Are you turned on or upset? Pick one already! _

For now, his body settled firmly on aroused as Crowley locked eyes with him, his expression naked and open without their usual sunglasses. They leaned in for a moment before dropping their finger. 

"Thank you. F-for caring.” They sighed. “It is what it is. And it’s my job." 

Aziraphale caught their hand before it could retreat much farther and held it with both of his. He struggled for something he could say, but never found it. He pleaded wordlessly, and Crowley nodded like they understood, so he patted their hand and let it go. 

After lunch Newt went around touching up all the models' makeup, and they gathered in the sitting room where the lighting people were wiring up big lights and fans. Soon enough the music was back to blaring and they were shooting again. The director called different sets of models up in pairs, threesome and foursomes on what seemed like nothing more than personal whims this time. He seemed dissatisfied, calling the photographer to their station and arguing over things on the monitors more than once. 

"Alright, starting over. Blonde on blonde pair shot, Laurent and Amy, front and center. Jake, stand to the side and try to engage as if you are interested, but have not been chosen. And you got dead eyes girl, so make it soft this time. Not shooting fish here." The photographer delivered that speech while fiddling with his camera.

They started up again, and then the photographer was yelling again. "No, no, no. You can't just stand there looking pretty! You need to emote! Make  _ me  _ feel the lust!" 

Which apparently didn't work because next the director stepped out and started calling out directions over the din. "Amy kiss that hot piece of meat. Kiss him like your drowning and he's made of air. … Grab the muscles. ... No, no, no. You need to look less like a whore and more sweet! Bloody hell kissing isn't that hard…" he threw his hands up and turned. When his gaze landed on Crowley he stopped. 

"AJ! You got your man here with you. Show Amy how to fucking kiss someone like you care about him, not like you were paid to do it."

Crowley jerked, and turned red. "What?"

The whole room was watching them now, dozens of eyes, waiting, staring. "Kiss your boyfriend for us. Amy watch her, learn something," the director commanded.

Crowley turned to him with pleading eyes and Aziraphale searched the room, looking for something, anything to try and deflect all the attention. There was nothing. This was happening. 

Ice water replaced the blood in his veins. 

"I'm sorry. I have to," Crowley whispered. They grabbed Aziraphale's arms, running a hand up, caressing his shoulder, up his neck, until they were cradling his cheek. They tilted his head so the only thing that filled his vision were those golden eyes, watery and beautiful. It was a blessing, to take back the moment from all the spectators and give it back to just the two of them. His face burned, as red as Crowley’s was. 

They leaned in, pressing their lips to his cheek. "I'm so sorry. Please, please forgive me. I would  _ never _ do this if it wasn't for work. I'm sorry," they whispered, the breath of their words ghosting over his skin. 

And then he was being kissed, Crowley's warm, soft lips pressing into his own, tilting for a better angle and brushing their noses together. It felt fantastic, and he gasped into it, but it also sent the pressure in his chest ratcheting up until it might crack his ribs. Everyone was watching, was watching Crowley kiss him. Crowley was kissing him. In front of a crowd of strangers. He had to hold still, to accept it, or risk being caught in their lie. He wouldn’t risk it, didn’t even want to. He felt no urge to retreat… He liked being kissed by Crowley. Crowley was being forced to kiss him and  _ he liked it _ .

What kind of vile person could find enjoyment in this? Crowley's career was on the line, and so they were kissing him. Something they would never,  _ never _ do otherwise. They’d said so. They made it clear they felt forced. He held his hands out, stiff and unsure what to do with them, and they started shaking. He wished he could just die, or sink into the floor like the scum he was. His guts churned, threateningly.

Crowley drew back, panting, and moved Aziraphale's face again, dropping it so that Crowley could press a final kiss to his forehead, a benediction, with another whispered plea for forgiveness. Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried to swallow the knot in his throat, feeling like he was being drawn and quartered; the thrill, the intimacy, the disgust and the humiliation all pulling him in different directions, breaking him at the seams. Crowley had nothing to forgive, they had done nothing wrong. Aziraphale should be begging them, apologizing for being a depraved pervert, a loathsome monster who had exploited this situation for their own sexual pleasure. 

"See? Exactly like that, girl," the director said. The poor model nodded, and tried to copy what Crowley had done. Finally, blessedly, no one was looking at them anymore. The whole of Aziraphale's body went boneless, drooping and shaking. He groped for support, grabbing the back of a nearby chair and lowering himself down as chills ran down his spine. 

"So sorry. I, uh." He raised the pitch of his voice, trying to sound cheerful. "I don't know what's come over me. I… I just need a moment." The experience had left claws digging into his lungs, and a lingering heat between his legs which only confirmed the depths of his depravity.

Crowley frowned and reached out, but stopped short, unable to actually touch him. That wasn't surprising. No one wanted to touch disgusting things. 

“Will you be alright if I step out?” Aziraphale said, offering what he knew was a weak smile but finding the tremble in his lips insuppressible. 

"Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. Take all the time you need. I won't go anywhere, I'm safe here."

Aziraphale scoffed.  _ No, you're really not. Not with people like this… Not with someone like me. _

He left, going back to the elevators, grateful there were just two other people in the hallway, dismantling a standing light and packing it up where there had once been a set. He leaned against the cold metal of the doors and tried to calm his shaking. 

It was awful, the way they treated Crowley. They weren't a puppet, or a shell, they were a whole person! And these men, these supposed professionals, just walked all over their models, treated them like things! Touching them and cat-calling them and making them do sexual things. Detestable people. Crowley deserved better. They shouldn't have to put up with this. 

He was furious, shaking with unspoken rage. They were all complicit, no one said anything, no one told the people in charge they couldn’t treat people like that. 

He was complicit. He had not said anything. He had done nothing to help Crowley, he had not objected, he had not complained. He had liked it when Crowley had been forced to kiss him. The anger fizzled out, leaving him hollow and drained. 

He straightened, trying to sort himself out as best he could. If he wasn’t going to protect Crowley from the sexual harassment in their workplace, the least he could do was protect Crowley’s reputation. And protect them from himself. 

* * *

They had ruined everything. They always ruined everything. 

Fell had been terse after their last photoshoot, barely able to look at Crowley, much less speak to them. They had apologized again, before they parted ways for the day, trying to explain that they’d only kissed him because it was business, it was for work, and Fell waved the words off. 

“I understand. You needn’t apologize,” he said. “You can’t risk standing up to your bosses because it would jeopardize your entire career. I agreed to pose as your boyfriend to guard your professional reputation, and I’m committed to doing so. It’s alright, Crowley. I know what’s at stake for you. You’ve done nothing to forgive.” 

They didn’t know what to say to that. They had done something terrible, but they didn’t want to argue with him when he was being so magnanimous, so they just left it at “Thank you.” Fell was so big-hearted. Crowley was just greedy, unwilling to take a dent in their earnings, going along with creeps like John Evans because they wanted the money. They could have said no, they could have stood up and not physically violated their only friend. They hadn’t. That was on them for being a coward. A coward who hid who they were, who lied and made Fell lie, who would assault their friends because their boss wanted a show. 

They slept horribly, tossing and turning from vague nightmares that left them sweaty and shaking. The next day they had planned to go out for lunch before going on a walk in the park, all accompanied by Fell. Anathema had sent Crowley home with a few pieces of the brand’s current line and asked them to assemble some selfies of them, and they had been planning on getting a few at St James Park, weather permitting. They’d had a lot of fun walking around together with Fell previously, and they just wanted to get back to normal. 

Fell didn’t issue a single noise while eating, not even a hum. He’d rushed to reassure Crowley that it was delicious, he just wasn’t very hungry, but Crowley didn’t believe him. They’d even ordered dessert, sliding it over to Fell after only a bite, and though he’d smiled and looked grateful, he became distracted and stared off into space as he finished it. 

The sky was overcast but they decided to try going on a walk anyway, since they were already all dressed up for pictures, and they got a few usable ones by the ducks. Fell only replied in short sentences to all of Crowley’s questions, and his reluctance made Crowley listless. When it started to sprinkle they gave up, wishing Fell a lovely evening with his family and going home to mope. 

Days later, when they had kick-ass-class, Fell was still out of sorts. He stood far away from the group, assigning one of the other students to correct them during grappling practice and wringing his hands the whole time. He didn’t even join in the melee during his advanced class. A few of his students seemed to pick up on his mood, whispering to him before they left and giving him more goodbye hugs than usual. 

Fell looked resigned when the last person left and it was just the two of them. He visibly screwed up his courage just to address them, telling them they would do more swordplay before leaving to fetch the equipment. It was heartbreaking, seeing him like this. Crowley had hurt him, had crushed his spirit. And they had done it for  _ money _ . 

They were rubbish. Fell may have forgiven them, but he shouldn’t have. He had forced their employee to kiss them for a job. Fell had been angry and disgusted then and he should  _ still  _ be. What Crowley did was a violation. It was unforgivable.  _ They  _ were unforgivable.

Their bodyguard wanted him to practice parries and lunges, and they slowly danced around the room attacking and defending. For the first time it felt like work, not play, to practice together. 

The air was heavy on the ride home. 

They canceled their friend-date for lunch on Monday and Tuesday, begging off by saying they were under the weather. They didn’t deserve dates with people they’d violated, and didn’t have the energy to even get out of bed anyway. 

Wednesday they had professional obligations, and had to drag their shit into some semblance of together for that. Their bodyguard was subdued but professional, greeting everyone at Dior with a smile, but Crowley could tell his enthusiasm was missing. No bright, shining not-boyfriend, bubbly with curiosity and praise. He wore his earpiece this time, probably listening to an audiobook, dreaming of being somewhere,  _ anywhere  _ else but here. 

It hurt. It hurt worse because there was no one to blame but themselves. 

They cried when they got home and it was safe to ruin their makeup. They didn’t even manage to take it off before the tears started. At least it kept their makeup wipes moist while they did. 

The next day they realized their fridge was empty when they went to eat breakfast and had nothing but sliced bread. They needed to go buy groceries. They wished they weren’t such a fuck up, and that they could call Fell, say he was hungry and out of groceries. Fell had such excellent shopping ideas, and would cluck and tut about their diet. Would bring them homemade dinners and sparkle when Crowley liked them. Would insist on going out somewhere spectacular and radiate joy as they ate. 

But not anymore. If Crowley told them that today they weren’t even sure that he’d insist on ‘escorting’ them like he had been. They weren’t  _ friends _ . They were an  _ employee  _ and an  _ employer _ . Wouldn’t it be a relief to not have to deal with them, anymore? Tracy had said this was only for a few months to be safe. Fell would surely be relieved to be finished guarding a fiend like them. 

They would just have to go to the supermarket by themselves. 

For a chore they had done on their own twice a week for literally their entire adult life, it felt shockingly empty now, an aching wound where Fell should be. They rushed, grabbing some sandwich fixings and a few meals before tears were threatening again and they fled. 

Saturday came. Fell would be with his family, with children he’d rescued, a family he’d built on the ashes of the one he’d been denied. In a house full of growth and love and promise. They hoped he was happy. They really did. 

Crowley had scotch and a dingy, empty flat. It kept them warm, at least. 

They didn’t get drunk because they were a pathetic, weepy drunk, but they were a pathetic, weepy mess sober too. Tipsy Crowley slurred their words and occasionally trembled their lips, but was easily distracted by television. Unfortunately, tipsy Crowley was a bad planner, and had run out of food in the house again and didn’t notice till late in the evening.

“Fuck it all… You know what? Let’s go out for some kebab. That sounds perfect,” they announced to the house. The shop nearby was open late like they all were, and they hadn’t had kebab in weeks. They changed into jeans and a men’s tee, tucked their phone and some cash in their pocket, grabbed their keys and left.

It was well past dark, and the streets were emptying. They weren’t the only slightly sloshed person out and about, they were sure, but they weren’t really paying attention, still lost in their own morose thoughts. 

Hands grabbed them and they stumbled. A shout of surprise bubbled up, but before it could be released one of the arms was around their throat, and the other hand had moved to cover their eyes, the nails digging into their temples with the force of it. 

They couldn’t breathe. They panicked, clawing at the sleeved arm around their throat but it only tightened its grip. It was rock solid, unperturbed as they struggled. 

They realized they were in a chokehold, that Fell had demonstrated this very chokehold on them. Their vision wavered with tears as they tried to scream, and couldn’t. 

_ I’m going to die! I can’t breathe!  _

Fell’s voice rose up from their memories, calling out “Go limp, relax into it! If anyone ever gets you by the neck like that again, don't fight if you cannot break free in a second or two!” 

It was so hard. So,  _ so  _ hard to stop fighting. To drop their arms, let their legs give out, to stop struggling. Their lungs burned, and tears were streaming down their face, and their brain screamed that it was  _ dying _ , they were going to  _ die _ , but they stayed limp. Whoever had them started dragging them backwards, their heels dragging on the pavement as they were pulled down an alley, but they didn’t loosen their grip. 

The world narrowed, growing strangely small and quiet. The world started to sparkle, flashes of rainbow fire filling the night. They were strangely beautiful. 

Their last thoughts were of Fell, as everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's going to a photo shoot outfit was inspired by [this fantastic artwork!](https://www.instagram.com/p/CDqiHOHpS5L/?igshid=1aoa8l8dtish4) Their lingerie looks were inspired by Victoria's Secret 2018 show and [this amazing art!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20531924/chapters/48732878) So much snashion art! Give the artists love!


	10. It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. It should have been, but that’s the weather for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter. Uh. For the kind of content you might expect given how last chapter left off, you know? But it's not that bad, I promise.

The world reeked of rot and their face was cold and wet. Sharp rocks ground into their cheek as their arms were pulled behind them. Something cold was wrapped around their wrists with a clicking sound, and it tugged at their consciousness, clearing a bit of the haze in their brain. 

Gravel crunched beside them and suddenly there was something thin, cold, and metal pressing into their side. It moved up and they could hear ripping as their shirt was sliced off them. Dread coalesced into an icy ball in their stomach as Crowley realized it was a knife. Someone was slicing their clothes off with a knife. It stopped at their collar, the tip pressing sharply on their neck, then pulled away as the last bit of fabric tore. 

It took all of their willpower not to shiver, to keep their breath from speeding up in terror as they faked unconsciousness, straining to take stock of themselves and their location surreptitiously. They were on the ground, probably still in the alley if the foul stench was indeed a dumpster. They must have only blacked out for a moment, less time than they’d been out the last time, because nothing else seemed to have been done to them. Yet. 

The knife returned, between their shoulder blades, and Crowley couldn’t suppress the chill that ran up their spine as it sliced through their bra. The knife-wielder didn’t seem perturbed by it, continuing to cut the straps of their bra and then move down to the waistband of their jeans. Whoever it was wiggled it to get the large blade under their tight pants, the point scraping the delicate skin between his arse cheeks as it did, stinging as it was shoved in. 

It lifted, trying to cut through the dense fabric, but it proved too tough to cut.

A growl issued from above them, and the knife was removed. Footsteps crunched away, and Crowley cracked open their eyes, straining to look at their surroundings. They were in the same alley but weren’t facing the direction the footsteps had gone, and so after a brief hesitation they slowly turned their head.

They were a few steps from a dark car, parked in the back of the alley, and someone was bent over, rummaging deep in the boot of it. 

This was their chance! They tried to pull their legs underneath them as quietly as possible, an awkward thing to do with their hands tied behind their back, but the moment they could brace themselves against a knee they jumped up and bolted. 

They ran out of the alley as fast as they could, awkward without their arms for balance, back to the main road, the tattered remains of their clothing falling off in a trail behind them. Thank someone they had put on regular flats, as they fled down the road at full speed, too terrified to look behind them. What if they tripped? What if their attacker was right there, and it was the hesitation they needed to catch them?

There was a convenience store ahead, and Crowley dashed to it, slamming into the glass door in their struggle to open it without arms. It swung inwards, and the clerk behind the counter’s jaw dropped as Crowley skittered in, sliding on the linoleum floor in his damp flats, and ducked around to hide behind the checkout desk. They crouched there, angling so their knees at least covered their exposed chest.

“What the fu—” the clerk started, her voice rising to a yell. 

“Please,  _ please _ , I am begging you,  _ please  _ don’t make a scene right now,” Crowley said in a stage whisper, their voice trembling. The clerk shut her mouth with a click. “Is there anyone following me? Has anyone run past?”

She turned, looking out the door which had swung shut behind them, craning from side to side. “No.”

Crowley blew out their breath and collapsed in a heap. “ _ Fuck _ .”

“I’m calling the police.” She picked up the receiver on an old landline phone underneath the counter.

The news would fucking eat that up. Tomorrow, headlines would be racing across social media: London Model Sexually Assaulted! Attempted Murderer/Rapist Loose in the City! Dior Model found Topless after Attempted Kidnapping! With their pictures splashed everywhere. 

“No, no, no!  _ Please  _ don’t! Not… I have private security. I have a personal bodyguard. Can you call him? Please, he’ll know what to do.” 

She looked extremely skeptical but finally put the receiver down and said, “Alright.”

“Thank you,” Crowley breathed. “My phone is in my pocket, but I can’t…” They squirmed, trying to make the front pockets accessible to the woman. “Can you get out my phone and call the “My Bodyguard” contact?” 

“Oh… Oh, I’m so sorry, excuse me,” she said as she tried not to look at Crowley’s now bared chest or their crotch and yet pull their phone from their jeans. She got it, and Crowley told her the password to unlock it. She put it on speaker and held it out as Crowley sorted themselves back into a crouch.

“Crowley?” Fell answered, sounding incredibly confused.

“Fell! I need you. I need you right now. I, uh. I got attacked.”

“You WHAT?” Fell bellowed, crackling the speaker so bad the clerk flinched. “Are you in danger?

“Pretty sure I got away.”

“ _ Where are you _ ?!”

“Uh…”

The clerk piped up, “She’s at Jim’s Convenience Store,” and then rattled off the address. 

“ _ Don’t move _ . I’m not far, I’m in Soho. I’ll be right there.” There was a rustling noise as Fell did something. “Are you sure you’re safe now? Who else is there?”

“The clerk. We’re behind the counter. No one can see I’m here but her. No one’s come in.”

Fell's muffled voice floated through the connection. “Jesse! Emergency! Cover! Bye!” He unmuffled the phone and continued, “Are you hurt?”

“Uh. Not really?”

“Not—” Fell made a strangled sound, followed by the noise of a car door slamming. “I need to drive. Do you want me to stay on the line, dear?”

“No. No, I’m fine. I’ll hang up.”

“I’ll be _ right there _ .”

“Okay. Okay. Bye.” 

The clerk hit the end call button for them. They looked up at her, really taking her in for the first time. She was a young brown-skinned woman, chubby, with several gold facial piercings. She looked terrified. 

Crowley started shaking, and curled up into themselves as far as they could to try and disguise it. “Sorry about all this… I’m having a rough night.” 

She nodded vigorously, eyes wide. 

“Fell’s a juggernaut. He’s so… He’s very strong. He’ll be here soon. We’re okay,” said Crowley. The clerk nodded and they waited in silence. A customer came in, and Crowley shrunk as far as they could behind the counter, their body tensing. Whoever they were bought a bag of crisps and, having noticed nothing, left. 

Fell burst in, out of breath, about fifteen minutes later. He rushed around the counter and the moment he saw Crowley, he started pulling his jacket off.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” He draped the jacket over Crowley’s front, and they couldn’t help but to look up at him, kneeling there, and felt their eyes prickle. “Oh, you’ve been handcuffed! That’s awful, let me…” He hesitated, and looked around, then addressed the clerk. “Do you have some disposable gloves I could use? And a bobby pin or needle? Any sort of small metal rod will do.” 

“Uh, yeah, hold on.” She left to go in the back room, returning a moment later with a pair of gloves and a safety pin and handed them to Fell. He snapped the gloves as he pulled them on. 

“Hold very still, my dear. I don’t want to smudge the evidence. I’ll have you free lickety-split.” He pushed Crowley’s shoulders gently, encouraging them to bend more and it sent a shiver down their spine. Their breath hitched, and tears gathered in their eyes. Fell gingerly pulled the cuffs up, away from their back. There was the snick-snick of metal on metal and they were coming loose. Crowley rubbed at their now-free wrists, which were red and puffy, bruises coming up already. They hadn’t noticed the injury, the adrenaline rush of it all still had their heart pounding. They clutched Fell’s coat to their front, finally getting to sit on the floor and let their legs sprawl as Fell got a plastic bag from the clerk and wrapped up the handcuffs, putting them in his pocket.

“How’d you know how to do that?” Crowley asked. 

“The Sergeant insists all his employees need to know how to pick simple locks, like handcuffs. I hadn’t agreed with the practice, but I see now he had a point. That knowledge did come in handy. Is there anything else you need to be released from, my dear?”

Crowley shook their head. 

“Your neck is bleeding. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“It is?” They put a hand up, and sure enough, there was wetness. “Oh. From the knife.”

“ _ The knife _ ,” Fell repeated, and his eyes burned. He looked ready to commit murder. 

Crowley flinched and the tears finally broke free, spilling down their face. 

“Oh. Oh dear,” said Fell, and then he was gathering Crowley up in his arms, holding them. They rested their forehead on his shoulder and sobbed. “It’s alright. You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I need to know, do you need any medical attention?”

Crowley shook their head, and started shivering again. Fell pulled them into a tighter embrace and rocked, rubbing soothing circles on their back and humming to them as they wept. They stayed there, on the floor of some random convenience store, until Crowley could pull enough of themselves together to stop bawling like a baby. They pulled back, clutching at the coat draped across them. 

“Here, put this on,” said Fell, and he removed his waistcoat and handed it to them. Fell turned his head, giving them their privacy as they dropped the coat and pulled on the waistcoat. It had an extremely plunging neckline, but it covered the important bits once it was buttoned. They slid their arms into Fell’s coat, the cream one they’d bought for him. They were swimming in it a bit, but it smelled like Fell and was comforting to wrap around themselves. 

“I’m covered,” said Crowley, and Fell turned back to face them.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No. I just wanna go home.”

Fell looked torn, his lips pressed into a line. “I want that too, for you to get home and be safe. But I think it would be best if we reported this to the police.”

“I can’t, I  _ can’t _ ! The headlines, can you imagine? They’ll tear me apart! Blast my image everywhere! It’ll  _ ruin  _ me,” they begged and their stupid eyes started crying again. Their nose got into it this time, snot threatening, making them sniff hard to keep it from pouring out of their face. 

“Shhh, it’s okay.” Fell pulled them back into an embrace. They clutched at him, hiding their face in his broad chest. “I promise you, it’s okay. I won’t let that happen. I won’t let them turn you into a spectacle. I’ll protect you.”

“You sure?”

“I’m certain. I have a friend on the force. Let me call him, we’ll talk to him first. Okay?”

“Okay.” 

Fell released them and got out his phone, which reminded Crowley that theirs was still just sitting on the floor where the clerk had left it for them, so they retrieved it. 

“Nicholas, so sorry to call this late, but I need a favor. I have a VIP client who was assaulted while I was not on duty. I’m here now, and they are reluctant to report it to the police… No, nothing severe, they said they don’t need any medical treatment… Yes, that’s it exactly. Discretion is the concern… Oh, would you? As a favor to me? That would be most kind… On Homerton row. Thank you.” He ended the call and turned back to Crowley.

"That was my friend, he's a constable, and he says he will personally take the case and make sure it is handed with the utmost discretion. He's a good person, I'll vouch for him. Does that satisfy you, my dear? Will you let me take you to the station?"

They acquiesced with a mumbled “Nnnnheh” and a nod.

"Thank you. Ready?" 

They drew Fell's coat tight around themselves and nodded again. 

"Wonderful." And suddenly Fell was gathering them up in his arms, caring them bridal-style. Their eyes widened in shock, and they clutched at his shirt. Fell turned to the clerk. "Thank you for all of your assistance in this matter. Do you have a card you'd be willing to give me?" 

"I just work here, man," she said. "I can give you my mobile?" 

"With your name, please and thank you." She scribbled it down on a piece of scrap paper and handed it over. Fell shifted so that he was supporting Crowley’s full weight nearly single-handedly and tucked it into his pocket. With another polite goodbye they left. He set a brisk pace, marching with intent.

"I can walk, you know." Crowley said, "Nothing wrong with my legs."

Their bodyguard glanced down and his face tightened. In a low, calming voice he said, "You are still shaking rather hard, my dear boy, and there was a bit of blood on the floor where you were sitting." That was news to Crowley. Must have been nicked on the arse as well. "If you would prefer, I will put you down and we will walk at whatever pace you'd like. But if you have no objection, this seems more efficient." 

Oh, Crowley had objections. Their dignity objected rather strenuously. Their body, however, was drowning them out with a flood of the opposite of objections. They felt safe in his arms, so strong they could carry them like it was nothing, so gentle it was comfortable. He was warm, and he smelled of sweat and cologne. Crowley rested their temple on his chest, feeling the thick muscles of his pecs moving as he walked. Of all the places in the world, being in his arms was the one they’d wanted most for quite some time now.

They sniffled, and the tears threatened again.  _ Why? I'm fine, now! Don't cry you stupid baby _ . Their frustration only made it worse.  _ You’re so useless. _

Fell carried them the whole way, his thick arms never giving out or visibly tiring. When they arrived at the police station, there was a stone-faced ginger man in plain clothes waiting outside. 

"I was expecting to have to wait for you,” Fell said. 

"I used the patrol car, Darling, since it was a favor for you. Come this way, please?" He stated flatly, giving Crowley a shock.  _ Darling? _

He took them to an interview room, and their bodyguard set them in the chair, taking up a station beside and a bit behind them, placing a supportive hand on their shoulder with a pat. The officer introduced himself as Constable Nicholas Angel and began flipping through some paperwork. Of course their bodyguard would know another _ literal angel  _ to help. Bloody hell, that was so fucking fitting. 

“This is Antoinette J Crowley, my client. This is Crowley’s second assault. I was hired after the first as a preventative measure, but was off-duty tonight. Crowley works as a runway and print model for several high-profile international companies and is concerned about the media finding out and making a spectacle.”

The constable looked surprised. “A model? I was expecting your VIP to be more… Well. A VIP from Shadwell, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t think I do…” Fell replied. 

“Ah. Well. Don’t worry about it, Darling.” And there it was again. What was  _ with  _ that? “It’s not important, and this is certainly preferable for me. Do you have ID on you, Ma’am?”

“Uh…” They patted their pockets and found their keys and wallet where they’d left it. “Looks like I do, still.” They fished out their ID and handed it over, and the Constable copied things down onto their forms. 

“Please describe this incident in as much detail as you can remember,” said the Constable, pen poised over their papers, ready to take notes. “If you find anything difficult to recount or need a break at any point, please let me know.”

Crowley did, starting from leaving their flat, and the Constable, an epitome of professionalism, occasionally asked probing questions. As they reached the part where they went limp, Fell patted their shoulder, a quiet praise that warmed their heart. When they got to the knife, he squeezed it, seemingly without realizing. Crowley glanced up to see Fell furious, but he masked it when he realized Crowley was looking, smiling down encouragingly instead. 

“You did very well, Crowley. You followed your Defensive Arts basics when you played dead and fled as soon as possible. You were successful in defending yourself! I’m proud of you,” said Fell.

“Didn’t feel like defending myself,” they mumbled back.

“You performed admirably in difficult circumstances,” Fell insisted, making them squirm a little from the praise.

“Did you ever get a good look at your attacker?” the constable asked. 

“No, not really. I saw them bent over in the boot of the car, but that’s it. They were taller than me, average build, and wore all black… Their shoes were familiar… “

“What do you mean, familiar?”

“I mean I know what kind of shoes they were but I can’t put my finger on it. They were black sneakers…” 

“Black sneakers. Right. And how much alcohol did you consume?” asked the Constable.

“Ngk.” Their throat tightened, and they squeaked out. “I don’t know.”  _ This is your fault, your stupid fault for being a worthless slut who always needs a nanny. Your Dad was right, you’re too stupid not to go out drunk by yourself at night and now the police are going to—  _

“Why is that relevant,” Fell demanded. 

“We need to document it as evidence. Intoxication can affect memory—”

Fell pulled the bag with the handcuffs out of his pocket and clunked it down on the table, hard. “Her memory seems indisputable to me.” 

The constable didn’t flinch or even alter his always-level voice. “I apologize if I came off indelicately. I am not trying to cast doubt or suspicion on your client, Darling. They are the victim of a crime. I only mean that we need to document all aspects of said crime. One of those aspects is how inebriated she was when she was attacked. Since you are uncertain as to your level of intoxication would you consent to a breathalyzer test?”

“I…” They looked at Fell, who seemed mollified and gave them an encouraging nod. “Okay.” He retrieved the equipment, and Crowley blew a 0.05. 

“That’s good. That’s not highly impaired and wouldn’t have been much higher at the time. And this attack took place at approximately…” He looked at his watch, “11:05 pm, correct?” 

“Uh…” Crowley had no idea. The night had taken forever, and yet, flashed by in an instance. They were so fucking helpful.

Fell rescued them once again, pulling out his phone and showing the call history to the Constable, explaining that Crowley had called minutes afterwards, once they were safely hiding. 

There was so much paperwork. The constable was extraordinarily reassuring and filled out most of it for them but Crowley had to read and sign it after, and it all just blurred past. They went into another room by themselves where a female police officer got pictures of their wounds, and helped check them over for ones they’d missed. All the adrenaline finally drained out of their body, leaving them hollow and feeling like shit. The station seemed to get bigger and brighter and more painful to be in the longer they were there. Fell pulled up a chair, pulling them so that their head rested on his shoulder, and they were so immensely grateful. They were exhausted. 

Finally, they were finished. The constable promised to send a team to investigate, and offered to drive them back to Crowley’s home. Fell accepted for them, which they appreciated. They were so exhausted that making decisions was an insurmountable effort. When they stepped out of the car in front of their building, Fell took a moment to _hug_ the constable as he thanked him and called him _my dear_. And all those Darlings. Did they _know-know_ each other? Was this an ex? Or worse, was this his boyfriend? They shook the thought from their head. None of their business. Fell had never talked about his dating life, which meant he wouldn’t appreciate them prying into it. It’s not like it mattered to them. Not like they had a shot. Even if it turned out he did have a thing for gingers, it didn’t change Crowley’s chances with him. He was still very gay, and they were still not a man.

Standing outside their front door, it felt like so much time had passed. Like the world was a different world that when they’d left, but it had really only been a few hours. They unlocked the door and stepped over the threshold. 

“Do you need anything else before I—” Fell started. Before he could finish, Crowley whipped around and grabbed his shirt in fistfuls. 

“No, don’t! Please.” They shuddered, the words jamming up their throat. “Please don’t go. I don’t …” Crowley hunched over to rest their forehead on their fists, hiding their face, so they could manage to breathe out, “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Fell’s breath caught, and he held them by the shoulders. When he spoke, it was even quieter than Crowley’s had been. “As you wish.”

They straightened up slowly. “You’ll stay the night?” 

Fell’s eyes shone even in the dim light of the hallway. “Of course. As long as you need.” 

They went inside and Fell closed the door behind them. The clicks and rattles as he slid all of Crowley’s locks into place was the only sound louder than the pounding of Crowley’s heart. Crowley stood there, not knowing what to do next. Everything was as they'd left it, the bed rumpled from spending the day in it, the mostly drunk bottle of scotch waiting on the bedside table, their laptop beside it. 

The whole day of feeling like a piece of shit, the whole  _ week _ spent alone again because of their own greed and idiotic behavior crashed back down on them. What the fuck were they doing? Begging their employee to spend the night. He was going to fuck this up again, and fuck it up bad. No one would be offering them comfort if they weren’t paid for it, history had confirmed that over and over and it was really time to learn the lesson. Fell had never been his friend, just an employee, and here they were crossing lines and exploiting him.

Something of their thoughts must have shown because Fell took their hand in both of his, patting it gently on the knuckles. “There there, my dear.”

_ Fuck. _ It did things to them when he called them his dear. Low, throbbing things. His hands were warm, and soft. Their touch anchored Crowley, centered their awareness on that connection, and they stared at it.  _ Fuck _ , it felt nice. It was just hands, but it was also so much.  _ Fuck _ .

“I think you would enjoy getting cleaned up, yes? And into fresh clothes?” Fell prompted in a soft voice.

Crowley looked at his face, which was as soft as his hands felt but brimming with concern. His eyes were brown in this light, rich and earthy and inviting. What had he suggested again? “Oh, right. Yeah. Think I got dumpster juice in my hair.”

Fell’s face wrinkled up in disgust, “How frightfully fetid. Let’s get you off to the bathroom to clean up. Which door is it?”

Fell dropped their hand, breaking the spell it had over them, and Crowley opened the bathroom door. “ ‘S here.” 

“Will you be alright in there by yourself?”

The thought of Fell joining them in the shower, of lathering their body up with soap, moving them how they wanted them,  _ touching, inspecting _ , was a bit much. They turned away, face aflame, and squeaked out, “I’ll be fine, thanks.” 

“Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right here.”

Crowley garbled out a reply and shut themselves in the bathroom, heart pounding in their throat. Fell was right outside, one door between him and their naked body, listening as they showered. No one had ever been in their home this late, much less while they were bathing. They’d never even had an overnight guest before, they were too fucked up to make friends or date. They stripped off Fell’s clothing and their pants and just threw them in a heap in the corner. The pants were rubbish now anyway, half the waistband sliced through and a sizable bloodstain on the seat.

Crowley stepped in the shower and new, horrifying thought occurred to them. There was only one bed. Fell agreed to spend the night and there was nowhere else in their tiny little flat to be but their bed, the one single bed, where Crowley themselves would be. There was the desk, but there was no way they could ask him to sit on their throne at the desk all night.

Maybe it would be best if they sent him home? Their lip trembled and their stupid eyes teared up again. God damn them, they were so fucking pathetic, so weak and useless.  _ You’re so much work, you stupid girl. So needy! Can’t you go one fucking day without a babysitter?  _ their father had said, and he’d been right. But the thought of sending Fell away opened a yawning emptiness in their chest and they knew they couldn’t.  _ Pathetic _ .

The first time they’d been attacked it had been over before they knew it. Sure they'd been grabbed, and that was scary, but they'd been able to breathe, they'd passed out faster, and when they'd come to they were surrounded by concerned people. People who got them cleaned up and home safe. 

This had been so much worse. The memory of how it felt when their neck was crushed, the burn of trying to inhale and being unable to. Clawing for just one breath and not being able to even get a handhold. The darkness. The terror of playing dead, and yet feeling like it was just a prelude to actually dying. The horrible feeling of the cold knife sliding against their skin. It was all together so much more, and they didn’t know how to cope with it at all, much less alone.

They showered, careful not to twist their arms where they were sore, scrubbing a bit harder than they probably should have, but it was hard to feel clean. When they were done they wrapped both their bath towels around themselves, steeled their nerves, and went back into the main room. 

Fell was standing by the door looking at their phone, typing something, when he noticed them, looked up, and froze. Feeling self-conscious, Crowley fidgeted with their towel then opened their closet, pulling out their pajamas and throwing them on the bed. Fell jumped a little as they did, like his batteries had been charged, and came over to them. 

“You’re bleeding again,” he said, brushing the hair from their neck.

“I am?”

“Just a bit. Do you have a first aid kit? Or at least some plasters? Let me take care of this.”

Crowley pulled a little first aid kit from their desk, and handed it to Fell. 

“Thank you. Would you sit down?” They complied. Fell smiled down at them and rolled up his sleeves, baring inch after inch of strong forearm, the dusting of hair on it pale and soft. Crowley licked their lips and stared at those arms as Fell opened the kit and got out the supplies. He dabbed a cotton ball of disinfectant, which stung, apologizing under his breath. His face was so near, bent over like that, and Crowley’s neck was so bared, and sore. If only he would lean down just a bit further, and kiss it to make it better. 

“There we are, all better,” He said as he patted the plaster and straightened. “Would you like me to do the same to your other wound?”

_ Oh, Fuck. Oh, shit. _ Their other wound. “...uh, I’m not sure that would be… appropriate.”

“Nonsense. Let me take care of you. Please?” he said with puppy dog eyes.

Crowley would let him do whatever he wanted to them. Him saying “Please” was just putting a hat on a hat. They laid down across their bed, smashing their burning face in the mattress, and pulled their lower towel down till they had halfway bared their bottom. Fell gasped, above them, and there was a long moment of stillness before he started moving, dabbing the cut in the cleft of their ass. It stung more, presumably because it was larger.

Fell hummed thoughtfully, “I’m not sure how best to bandage this. It’s a bit long and shallow, so too large for one plaster, but it’s an awkward location for gauze.”

Fell was staring, they knew he was staring at their arse and they didn’t know if they wanted to sink into the floor in embarrassment or beg for more. The rush of emotions just stirred up all the other feelings they’d been having and it set them to shivering, their eyes watering yet  _ again _ . Fuck, they were so worthless. 

“Oh dear, Oh no, I’m so sorry. You’ve had enough trauma for one evening and here I am, acting no better than your attacker.” The sticky feeling of two plasters applied to their bum and then the towel was hastily being raised, covering them back up. 

Crowley bit their lip, fighting back the tears and cleared their voice. “No, I appreciate it. Last thing I need to top the shit sundae of today would be getting an infected arse.”

A nervous chuckle spilled from Fell’s lips. “Goodness, that would be truly awful.”

“My point exactly.”

There was a knock at the door, startling them both, but then Fell brightened and said, “That would be your dinner, dear.” He answered the door, very chipper and back to his normal self as he thanked and tipped the delivery person. Crowley took the time to sit back up and settle their towels, hiding their weird body in them better. 

Fell set out containers on their desk. “Since you were out to get dinner and didn’t manage to, I thought you must be starving and had a delivery service get you kebab from the place you like. Well, it’s from the place we went together. I ordered the same thing you got then, so hopefully that’s your usual, and you’d still like it after all… all that’s happened.” He turned to them. “Oh, goodness gracious, here you are, can’t even get dressed. I’ll wait in the bathroom for as long as you need,” he said as he retreated, pulling the door closed on his face after the last word. 

“You remembered my order from weeks and weeks ago?” they asked the now empty room. They went over to the desk and popped the styrofoam clamshell. Steaming up at them was their favorite order, exactly what they’d gotten at the end of their first day together, what they always got after a long hard day at work. Even the drink was the right soda. Today had definitely been both very long and very hard. 

And now they were _ fucking crying again, _ what the hell was the matter with them? They growled, fisted their eyes dry, and got dressed, yanking their soft cotton clothes on. 

“I’m decent, you can come out now,” they yelled, more irritated sounding than they’d intended. 

“I daresay you’re more than decent,” Fell muttered as he returned. Crowley wasn’t sure if they were supposed to have heard that. “Why aren’t you eating? Did I get it wrong?”

“No, no. Uhhhh… You got it spot on. Did you want any?”

“No thank you, my dear, though that’s very kind of you. I had dinner with my family.”

Right. Fell had a family. Family dinners and tucking into beds and all that lovey-dovey stuff he deserved. He already had that with people that didn’t have to pay him for his company.

They sat down, and the smell of seasoned meat and chips made their mouth water. They were starving, so it tasted like the best kebab they’d ever had as they scarfed it up. Fell watched with a smile from his perch on the end of their bed. 

When he finished, it was with a moan. “I needed that.”

“Then I am pleased to have been able to provide it. Is there anything else you’d like?”

Crowley threw away the rubbish and yawned, hiding it behind their hand. “No.”

“Come. Get in bed.”

Being ordered by Fell sent a thrill along Crowley’s nerves like it always did. They obeyed, climbing back under the covers. Fell came around and tucked them in, noticing the bottle of scotch beside them when he finished. 

“May I put this away?”

“Oh. Er. Sure. Goes in the cabinet.” They pointed and Fell put it away, with the rest of their scant remaining groceries, mostly booze at this point. He took his shoes off, leaving them by Crowley’s, and turned off the lights. 

In the darkness, there was only the sound of their breathing, both a bit heavier than it should be. Crowley’s eyes adjusted and they saw Fell standing at the foot of their bed, pulling his fingers. 

“Come on then. You can’t stand there all night… Ok, no I completely believe that you are capable of standing there all night, like some sort of body-guardgoyle, but I refuse to allow it.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, where the hell else is there to be? My flat is tiny.” They patted the bed beside them and then realized.  _ Fell’s your employee, you stupid lonely idiot, don’t sexually harass your employee.  _ “Unless you're uncomfortable. I don’t mean— I don't want to badger you into anything. You can— Never mind, nothing. You can—” their traitorous voice hitched “you can go home.”

Fell hurriedly sat down beside them. “None of that now, my dear boy. I’m here for you.” He smoothed their hair, and they closed their eyes, savoring his touch. “I wasn’t uncomfortable, just worried about making  _ you  _ uncomfortable. After what you went through I can’t think you’d welcome the presence of a strange man in your bed with you.”

“You’re not a strange man. You’re Fell.”

He only hummed noncommittally, and kept gently petting their hair, lulling them to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me writing this chapter: 
> 
> Thank you to all my readers who screamed at me last week. Twas very motivating and helpful and appreciated. May you enjoy this week's chapter!


	11. Something told him that something was coming to an end.

Crowley’s bed was soft and warm and inviting. It was the kind of bed that you sank into after a long day and felt like you were floating. The kind that blurred into the soft darkness of night and embraced you as you sank into it, sank down into sleep. Aziraphale missed sleeping in a bed and this one, especially, called to him.

Thankfully, Aziraphale was not in it, per se. He was sitting on top of the covers, leaning against the wall. Crowley had long since fallen asleep, their poor, exhausted body finally giving out. Their normally controlled expression softened in sleep, the planes of their faces smooth, their countenance trusting. While bathed in moonlight their skin glowed, their freckles little pinpricks of darkness scatter-sown across, and it made them look ethereal, beautiful. 

This wasn’t to say that the stress of the day hadn’t left marks. Their eyes were bruised and puffy from crying and they slept curled in on themselves. To Aziraphale’s delight, his presence had a noticeably relaxing effect on them, the tightness melting more and more with each stroke of their hair. His hand was still tangled in their soft tresses, having stopped while twisting a lock around his finger, feeling the silken caress of it as they slept. 

If he had been lying down he would certainly have disgraced himself. He would have been inches from the rest of their body, his face smothered in the mattress, breathing deeply of the scent of this fae creature. As it was, his prick was overly interested in the arrangement, giving a pulse every now and again, whispering things in his mind about how close, how warm, how inviting this was. How lovely it would feel to lie down, stretch out, wrap his body around Crowley, and perhaps rut into their side. Or how lovely it would be to kneel at their feet, begging them to allow him to look into those eyes and finish onto their faux-wood floor.

It was terribly inappropriate. And terribly distracting. Crowley was vulnerable, a victim of a vicious attack, and didn’t deserve to be sexualized, to be treated like an object. Even it was as an object of affection. Focusing on that thought was the only thing that seemed to reduce his tumescence, so he chanted it, a silent mantra as the wee hours of the morning came and went.

Sunlight stabbed his eyes through his eyelids, waking him when he hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. He was still upright, if more slumped over. As consciousness returned, his first thought was to thank all the unintentional practice he’d had sleeping upright for keeping him that way because Crowley had cuddled up to him in their sleep. He was terrified to open his eyes, to see what they looked like with their face pressed into the meat of his thigh. One of their arms was hugging it, their hand dangerously close to discovering his morning wood. If he’d laid down in his sleep, with the amount of body contact that would have involved… Well Aziraphale was not a weak willed man, but that would be a bit much, even for him. For God’s sake, Crowley had a leg hooked around their ankle, and the urge to caress the back of their thigh with his foot was extremely tempting.

As it was, his body burned from head to toe, sweaty and nervous and much too aware of the sensation of each of Crowley’s breaths passing across their trousers. He finally opened his eyes to fish his phone out of his pocket. 

It was only 8:17 am. Crowley wouldn’t need to be awake for a few more hours. The poor boy needed all the sleep they could get, after yesterday’s stresses, yet they were so tangled together that if he moved it would surely wake them up. He couldn't. No matter how much they struggled internally with their baser urges. 

With a sigh, he resigned himself to holding very still and waiting until Crowley either released him, or arose. He firmly commanded his genitals to calm down, and under no circumstances were they to enjoy the situation, then pulled up his current book on his phone. He settled down and read, and became engrossed enough in  _ Pride and Prejudice and Zombies _ to try to forget his surroundings. Tried to stop sneaking glances of the rose gold halo the morning sunlight turned their sleep-fuzzed, unkempt curls into. The way the skin of their lips changed from pale to pink to red inside their mouth. That they had a blemish hidden in the curl of their ear, the only mark on their otherwise flawless skin. That their silk pajama bottoms hitched up, exposing the knob and tendon of their ankle.

Crowley slept soundly until their phone went off, vibrating and belting out some bebop from where they’d left it on their desk. They flinched and smashed their face, tucking it deeper into the crevice of the bed and Aziraphale’s thigh, groaning. They froze, tense and still for a moment before shoving themselves backwards so hard they fell out of bed. 

“Oh good Lord! Are you alright?” said Aziraphale, leaning to peer over at them on the floor. Wincing and rubbing their bottom, Crowley looked up at him, their golden eyes shone in the morning light, pleading as their energetic alarm went off in the background.

“I’m  _ so  _ sorry,” they said. 

“Whatever for? Falling?” Aziraphale frowned down at them.

“No, for… for taking liberties. After I made you stay and everything.”

“Nonsense. You own me no apologies, I’m happy to be of service. Did you sleep well?”

They blinked. “Whu… Well, yeah.”

“Lovely. You certainly needed it.” He stood, straightening his clothes, tamping down any ideas lurking in the edges of his consciousness after watching those eyes begging him from waist high. “How are you feeling? How is your body?”

“Oh, it’s,” they blushed and ran their hand through their hair, where it tangled. “Sore. Like I took a ride in a washing machine.”

“Oh dear. Do we need to go to a doctor?”

“No, no. Nothing that bad. A lot of water and some paracetamol should sort me out.”

“Well then.” He rushed over to the cabinets, guessing which held the dishes, pleased when he chose right. He got a tall glass, filled it with water from the tap, and handed it to Crowley. “Where do you keep your tablets?”

Crowley stared at the water in their hand like they didn’t know what to do with it. “Uh… In the medicine cabinet, behind the mirror in the bathroom.”

He found the painkillers with only a little digging, bringing two and holding them out for Crowley, who just stared, dumbfounded, at them on his outstretched palm.

“Is this not acceptable?”

“No. I just…” They picked up the tablets. “Just surprised.” They swallowed them, and chugged half their glass of water after. 

“Good. Now, I noticed your cupboards are quite bare, so if you have any preferences for how we acquire breakfast, we have time to go somewhere or make other arrangements before class.”

Crowley blanched. “Class. Right.”

Aziraphale wanted to kick himself. A victim of a violent crime wouldn’t want to go have people punching and kicking at them the next day. He should have realized. “I’m sorry, of course you wouldn’t be up for it. I’ll call and cancel classes today.”

“No, don’t. I don’t want to be a bother… Don’t think I’m up for lessons, today, but we can go.”

“Are you sure? It’s no bother.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Aziraphale remained skeptical, but took them at their word. “Alright. Let me know at any point if it gets too much for you. Breakfast?”

* * *

A cafe nearby served full English breakfasts, so Aziraphale had Crowley lock the door behind him while he fetched the company car. He had left it near the convenience store, opting to risk a ticket for parking overnight where he wasn’t sure he was supposed to rather than try and juggle the car and a traumatized, injured friend. Crowley had been so out of sorts and needed to just go home, it didn’t seem right to go back for it when they finished at the station, and hadn’t mentioned it so they wouldn’t feel guilty. He was lucky, though, no tickets, so he wouldn’t have to beg the Sergeant for forgiveness. 

For their entire outing Crowley was quiet and wilted, and it broke Aziraphale’s heart to see them like that. They sat on the sidelines during class, and when the other students inquired told them that they were nursing an injury and resting, but still here to learn. When class wrapped up Crowley said they wanted to wait in the locker room, and Aziraphale acquiesced. He spent his time between classes standing in the doorway, fretting and fidgeting.

“Darling! Are you alright? I’ve been worried,” Jesse called across the room as soon as she saw him. The attendant at the front desk waved her in and she jogged over. 

“Thank you so much for your help last night, Jesse. I’m afraid it quite slipped my mind to update you, and for that I apologize.”

“Are your kids all ok? Did Pepper get into it again?”

“Oh, no! I mean, yes, they’re all fine. I’m afraid it was a friend and client. They were assaulted, and needed my assistance. They’re fine, only minor injuries, but they were very shaken.”

Jesse sucked a breath through her teeth. “Ooof. Rough. Do you need any more time off? Or something else I can help with?”

“I think I have everything in hand, but thank you.”

“No, it was my pleasure. You’ve covered my arse plenty.”

When Leslie arrived next, they had a similar conversation, Jesse also filling in some of the parts for him. When they finished, he said “I’m glad I could help then.”

“Oh. Did you fill in for me?” asked Aziraphale.

Leslie nodded. 

“Thank you, I appreciate it. You work tonight, yes?” Leslie nodded again. “Let me take your shift, give you back your weekend. I know they mean a lot to you.”

“Are you sure?” Leslie looked concerned, putting his hand on Aziraphale’s arm. “Don’t you need to spend the weekend with your friend?”

“Positive. They won’t need me late at night, they’ll be safely locked in their home.”

“Alright then. Thanks, Aziraphale.” Leslie patted him on the shoulder and moved to join the rest in their warm ups. 

Class was otherwise unremarkable. Aziraphale participated fully, feeling the need to burn off some pent-up frustrations. A wide variety of frustrations. It felt good to let go, focus on the moments, the movement, and work up a good sweat. 

It was only after that he realized that all that sweat needed to be cleaned off. In the shower. The shower in the locker room. Where Crowley was waiting. Where he had made such a shameful idiot of himself the last time they were in that locker room together. 

“Good Lord.” He paced, wringing his hands as his face burned. “Just don’t do it again and get on with it, you stupid man.”

He fetched his things from the cab, accidentally knocking a few books off their stacks in his blustering, and braved the locker room. Crowley was sitting at the end of a bench, leaning against the wall and watching something on their phone with earphones in. They glanced up, looked at his toiletry bag, and went right back to it, so he didn't interrupt them and hustled into a shower stall. 

His shower was cold and quick, and he dressed in the wet stall to avoid being undressed in the same room as Crowley. 

On the drive back he asked, "Where else do you need to go today? For the time being I think it would be best if you don't order deliveries when I'm away, so we should probably do a trip to Tesco."

Crowley frowned. "Why not?"

"Because you don’t know what your attacker looks like, it would be very easy for whoever your assailant is to intercept deliveries and/or masquerade as a delivery person in order to gain access to you or your home."

Crowley looked horrified. " _ Oh _ . Okay."

"I’m sorry, I don’t mean to frighten you. It’s a precaution, that's all. I don’t want you to live in fear, and so far your attacker has a consistent M.O. that doesn’t include that.” Crowley considered his words with a grumble, and Aziraphale continued. “Shall we go now to restock your larder or is there some preparations you’d need to make? I’ll cook you some nice side dishes tomorrow to help as well, if you have any requests." 

Moisture gathered in the corners of Crowley’s eyes. “You will?”

“It would be my pleasure to, my dear.”

* * *

By the time they finished shopping, Crowley was loaded up with groceries, more groceries in one trip than they ever had. Fell had been very helpful in suggesting canned and other non-perishable meal making options. Fortunately, Fell had driven to the supermarket, because it was much too much to carry, even with two of them. It was much too many to fit in the front seat, even. 

“Oh dear.” Fell pursed his pretty lips and stared at the offending overflow. “I think I can make room for these to fit, if you can wait in the cab?”

Crowley squinted at him. “Why? What are you hiding in the back?”

Fell blushed, darting his eyes around before resigning himself. “It’s messy, that’s all.”

“Lets see it then. I won’t judge. I’ve seen your workout clothes.”

He barked a little laugh. “Oh, alright then. But don’t make fun of me.”

“Cross my heart.”

He unlocked and opened the back door, revealing a veritable mountain of books. The car was literally so stuffed with books there was only a cubby near the door that was slightly smaller than the window, and only a half and arm’s length deep. The only break in the stacks were two small suitcases in front. 

Crowley burst out laughing.

Fell frowned at him, poutfully.

“I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. It’s just so… I knew you liked reading but… You do know about ebooks, right?”

Fell scoffed. “I’m not an idiot. I have plenty of ebooks on my devices.”

“Well then why on  _ earth  _ are you hauling around this dragon’s hoard of literature?” 

“... I don’t have space for them at home.”

What a mind-boggling revelation. What sort of place was his house? Beyond it being a massive fire hazard, obviously. Would it be like an episode of Hoarders, but with dusty tomes? 

Fell loaded up the last of their groceries, all the while casting them side-eyed glances, seemingly waiting for the axe to fall, but Crowley held their hands up in surrender. The ride home was uneventful except that it was the first time since they’d left their house that they felt happy again. Between the two of them they got the groceries out of the cab without dislodging any of the books, upstairs and put away. 

“Is there anything else you need?” Fell asked. He genuinely looked hopeful that Crowley would tell him something else to do. 

“No, not today. I just want to sleep for the next century.”

Fell giggled, and it made them smile. “I completely understand. Do you mind if I go? I would like to have dinner at home before I have a shift at The Commodore tonight.”

“No, you go have time with your family.”

“You’re sure? It’s no trouble to stay.”

“Fine. Promise.”

“Alright. Before I go I’d like to show you an app I use that I would like to share with you.”

He pulled out his phone and tapped away before showing him the screen. It was a map of London, with eight pins in four places. “It’s a tracking app. Our family uses it so we all know where each other are, especially for me since I’m so very mobile, but also so I can see where the kids are going in case of an emergency. If you’re amenable, we can install it on your phone and then you’ll always know where I am, and if there are any other incidents like last night I'll be able to find you even if you can’t call me.”

“And no one else will have access?”

“No. Only me on my phone.”

“Okay, yes, please.” 

“Wonderful. Let me set it all up?”

Crowley unlocked their phone and handed it to him, trusting him not to do anything other than what he’d said. When he finished, he went over how it all worked and said , “Now, I’m almost always able to use my phone while at work at The Commodore, though my replies might be slow sometimes, so please, feel free to text me anytime. Even if you’re just feeling nervous or alone. I’ll be there for you. And if you want to know where I am, you’ll always know if I’m close by or not. But don’t let that dissuade you from asking me to come get you. I will, no matter where I am or where you want to go, no matter how small an errand, or even if you just want company. I don’t want you to put yourself in a situation where you’re vulnerable when you don’t have to. I’m here for you. Alright?”

Their throat clamped down, their vision misted.  _ I’ll be there for you... I’m here for you.  _ Their voice failed them, like a lot of things about them did, and they just nodded. 

“Lovely. I’ll see you tomorrow, and hopefully hear from you sooner. Make sure you lock up.”

With that he saw himself out, closing the door behind him. Crowley’s stupid weak eyes were still threatening, so they took a moment to gather themselves before throwing the bolt and sliding in the chain. 

They were alone again. 

Why was it so fucking hard to be alone? They’d  _ chosen  _ to be alone. This was what they had wanted. Why wasn’t it enough anymore?

They tried to distract themselves from their stupid baby fee fees by diving into work, every once in a while glancing at his phone, watching the blue marker as it moved across town, out past the motorway, and stopped.

That must be where Fell lived. He was home, surrounded by his loved ones, passing bread and laughing.

They growled at themselves — they were sulking. They made their own dinner, one of the meals suggested by Fell, and was pleased with it. Then they remembered he had promised to bring them some homemade side dishes tomorrow and they started crying again. 

“The fuck are you crying for? You’re happy about it!” they screamed at themselves, throwing their hands up in disgust. “Bloody hell you’re such a fucking mess. Waste of space. Useless whiny baby. Grow up already! You’re a god-damned adult.”

That night passed poorly. They couldn’t sleep. Fell’s dot moved back into town, landing in Soho by 11:00. They re-watched Golden Girls but couldn’t enjoy it. Fell had said he worked the drag shows, and they started picturing him in drag. Would he be cute and bouncy or coy and sexy? Would he wear ball gowns? Of course he would, the formal bugger. 

Buggery. 

Fucking.

_ Fuck _ .

They touched themselves, like the stupid wanker they were. Watching that dot, thinking about how Fell probably liked to be buggered as they fucked into themselves. He probably liked someone with a nice fat cock to bend him over. Not like theirs. Their stupid useless mess. He’d never want that. They came with their face buried in their pillow, hiding their shame, and cried themselves to sleep. 

It didn’t last. Every few hours they woke up. Fell was still at work at 1:00. At 3:30 Fell was in some carpark nearby. Fell was still in the carpark at 4:15. 

At 5:30, 8:00, and 10:00 am they woke up, groggily checked their phone and Fell’s unmoving dot, then rolled over to go back to sleep. When they woke up for the last time around noon, he had finally moved, back out to his home. 

Crowley shot off a text

> what are you doing?
> 
> Cooking! I’ve decided to bake for you.   
>  Right now I’m making vegetable pasties. I was thinking since you enjoyed samosas you’d like them. Do you prefer them spicy?
> 
> I like pasties. Don’t need to be hot.
> 
> Wonderful. And how would you feel about some orange and currant scones?
> 
> feel like eatin em
> 
> Excellent! I should be there once I finish baking, around 3:00, unless you need me sooner?
> 
> no, 3 is fine

Three couldn’t arrive too soon, and when Fell finally knocked Crowley bounded up to let him in. His big stupid grin was infectious, and they smiled along as he unpacked all the baked goods and stashed them away, passing Crowley a pasty when they said they were hungry. 

Just as he was biting in Fell said, "There was a letter on your stoop, so I brought it in," and handed them an envelope. 

It was plain, with a printed address label, but no postage or return address. Strange. They held their pasty in their teeth and opened it. 

"Huh. 'S empty."

Fell frowned, taking it from their hands and inspecting it. "How odd… shall I throw it away?"

"Yeah, go ahead." 

Crowley inquired about Fell's family and got a long answer about Brian, who had developed a crush on another boy at school, made a spectacle of himself confessing in front of his entire class, at which the poor boy had screamed at him that he was disgusting and an idiot and then loudly proclaimed his heterosexuality. 

"What did he expect? I mean, really, who does that? This isn't the movies," Crowley said, licking crumbs from their fingers. It had been a delicious pasty. 

"I know. Brian is… Brian is a bit of a mess. He's usually very well-behaved, other than a tendency towards dramatics and to go along with whatever mischief Adam and Pepper are getting into."

“I wish him a speedy recovery."

"I'm sure he will be fine. He gets crushes very easily, and I’m sorry to say that something like this has happened before. Tell me, how are you? Did you sleep well?"

Crowley groaned and belly-flopped down on their bed. "No. Slept horrible. Kept waking up."

"Oh, you poor dear."

"Speaking of last night, did you forget your phone somewhere?"

"No!” He looked horrified at the very thought. “I promised I would have it on me so that you could reach me, and I did. It was with me all night."

"Well then, why did you spend the entire night in a carpark?"

"Ah. You noticed." He bounced on his heels and fidgeted. "It's because I slept there."

"In a carpark?"

"In the car. Which was parked in a carpark."

"Why are you sleeping in your car? Did you get too drunk or something?"

"No! I... Right. Well, you see, there are many complex… it's very late when I get off work, and the kids get up to get ready for school at seven in the morning, and that only gives me three hours of sleep before they wake me up."

"Why don't you ask them to be quieter or insulate your bedroom or something?"

"They are teenagers, they can't contain themselves reliably. You remember what it was like at that age. Such big feelings!"

"What about your bedroom then?"

Fell demurred, looking away and mumbling something. 

"What did you say?"

He turned back and blurted out, "I don't have one!" 

"Well, where is your bed then?"

"... I gave it away."

"You  _ what _ ?!"

" _ I gave it away _ ! Warlock was sick and in danger and the doctors said she needed monitoring and a place to stay and so I said, here you go, here's my half of the room. Make yourself at home, you'll be safe here. And I just… Moved all my things into the car." He said in a rush, fluttering about and darting nervous glances at Crowley. 

They just stared at him, their jaw dropped and eyes wide. 

He  _ lived  _ out of his  _ car _ . Because he gave his bed and bedroom away to a baby queer who needed help.  _ That _ was why it was so crammed full of stuff— it was basically a moving van with nowhere to unload.

They felt like they were falling. Or like they were flying. Their chest ached and they couldn't tell if they wanted to laugh or cry. They had no idea what this overwhelming feeling was, since they certainly had never had it, especially this much of whatever it was. It felt wonderful, and it made them want nothing more at that moment than to pull Fell into a hug and crush him against their chest. They felt like they would do anything for him, if he so much as hinted he wanted it. 

They didn’t know what to do with it, this feeling filling them to bursting, so they reached out, taking his hand to hold with both of their own, patting it awkwardly. 

"I…" they swallowed against the knot in their throat. "I think that's admirable of you."

"Oh. Oh, thank you. I worry sometimes you know. It seems rather foolish. Arthur is always warning me about biting off more than I can chew."

Crowley shook their head slowly, squeezing the hand they clung to. "Not foolish. No…  _ Amazing _ ."

Fell blushed, a delicious shade of pink in his cheeks, just tipping his ears in red. Crowley was dying to kiss it, to sip at the heat of it. They dropped his hands and retreated, scooting back on the bed to try and banish that urge.

"Are you working tonight?"

"Yes."

"So you plan on sleeping in the carpark again?" 

"... As usual." 

Before they could stop themselves, before they could think about what an inappropriate and stupid thing it was too say, they said, "Don't."

Fell looked at them, eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. "Don't?"

"Don't… Come here. Come sleep here."

The blush bloomed, taking over his entire face and neck. "I couldn't! I— I— I mean… you couldn't possibly—" 

Crowley crawled forward till they were on the very edge of their bed, looking up at him from on all fours. "I do. I mean it. My bed's so big, too big, I don't need it all. Plenty to share. Won't even know I'm there. Plus, I slept so much better when you were here. You'd be doing me a service. "

He pressed his lips and they stared, unblinking, into each other's eyes, perched on a precipice. 

"I'd be doing you a service?" Fell said, eyes pleading. 

So that was how it was to be, then. 

"Yes. Night guard duty. Keep me safe, help make sure I can sleep. Possibly just a placebo, but didn't you once tell me that your job was mostly just to exist and be a deterrent?"

"I did, yes."

"There you are. You'd be doing me the favor here. Be working hard, putting in long hours."

"Well, if you put it that way… I could hardly leave you unguarded when you’ve requested my presence."

Crowley shattered, the shards of their heart lodging in their ribs. It was always a job to look after them, to comfort them. Of fucking course he'd prefer it if Crowley was just another professional obligation. They sat on their haunches and looked away. 

"I'll even talk to Tracy, see if we can get you some overtime pay for it. For working a late night shift."

Fell's head whipped around and he gestured vehemently as he said, "No! No, that would be… absolutely not. I'm already earning a fair wage. It’s enough for me that I get to..."

Fell trailed off and Crowley shrugged, dropping it. People didn't care unless they were being paid. If Fell said they were being paid enough to care, it wasn't worth risking it by asking too many questions. People didn’t like it when you told them you knew it was only the money they were interested in.

The silence hung heavy in the air. 

Fell broke it when he said, “Speaking of Madame Tracy, what did she say about it?”

“About what?”

“Your attack.”

“Oh… Er… Nyyyeah, I haven’t told her yet. Forgot.”

“Well…” Fell was waiting, and Crowley tilted their head, confused. “Go on then.”

“Uuuugghhh.” But he did, phoning her up while Fell watched. It took a while to get through, but she was at least in the office. When Crowley explained what happened, she got very worried, and they had to rush to reassure her they were fine. She insisted they get a copy of the police report to her.

“I’m afraid it looks like you’ve got a real stalker, dearie. This might be a problem. Why didn’t you have your bodyguard with you?”

“Oh. Er.” Crowley fumbled for a plausible lie. “Was drunk and forgot to.”

“That’s very disappointing, Crowley. You won’t make that mistake again, yes?”

“Right. Definitely. He’s even going to come check on me some nights.”

“Good. And make sure he’s keeping an eye out even at your professional obligations. I’ve been getting some strange inquiries about booking you that I don’t think are legitimate, and I think your stalker might be behind them. I’ll look more into them on my end. Make sure you send me the police report so I can forward them anything I might find!”

Crowley promised, and the conversation wrapped up. 

“Tracy wants you to keep an eye out in professional settings. She’s gotten weird inquiries, and thinks my stalker is behind it.”

“I shall.” 

Fell excused himself after a bit more awkward silence, and Crowley let him go. It was fine, they’d manage by themselves till later, when he’d be back after work. To sleep together. In their bed.

* * *

Aziraphale was having a hard time concentrating, and Leslie noticed, elbowing him and otherwise nudging him out of his frequent spacing out. Monday nights were Drag King nights, and usually he’d be happily cheering on the performers as he made his rounds, and asking the regulars how they were when he was stationed at the front door. 

Instead, he kept thinking about what was going to happen later that night. When he finished his shift and went to Crowley’s house to sleep in Crowley’s bed while Crowley was in it. 

_ Were they planning something? Did they expect… intimacies? Good Lord, they couldn’t really be… couldn’t want… _ Although they had  _ literally  _ invited him to their bed, they had made it very clear that they were just scared, alone, and wanted the company. In light of their recent attack, that didn’t seem unreasonable. This was a professional obligation and an act of charity, nothing more, and it was important that he not overthink this, to not get his prick involved in any fantasies.

The closer he got to the end of the shift the more nervous he got. He was practically shaking as he walked up and knocked at their familiar door. 

When Crowley answered it they were the messiest he’d ever seen: in rumpled pajamas, droopy-eyed, their hair a tangled mess. 

“I’m so sorry to have woken you,” he said, wringing his hands. 

Crowley waved off his apologies and grunted. “Get in here. ‘M tired.”

“Right. Yes. Of course.” He squeezed past and Crowley locked the door. Without any further ado they climbed back into bed, shoving themselves to the far corner and curling up under the covers. They faced the wall, hugging a pillow, and completely ignored him. 

That helped, as he shakily removed his coat, waistcoat, and other outerwear. He hung them over the back of Crowley’s throne, but left his shirt and trousers on. He wanted to be covered. Nothing indecent was going to happen. Look at Crowley, tired, practically hiding against the wall. 

He lingered, his heart pounding through his ribs, staring down at the bed.  _ It’s fine, it’s fine, this is just a kind offer from a friend in need to another friend in need. It’s mutually beneficial. Just lending a hand when needed between friends. An Arrangement.  _

He screwed up his courage and got under the covers, laying stiff as a board as close to the edge as he could, his hands clasped tightly over his belly. Before too long, the gentle snores of sleep were the only sound in the room, as Crowley had apparently fallen back into it, but Aziraphale found it hard to relax. 

He could smell them, their floral soaps and musky, sweet body. His stupid penis felt the need to comment on it, throbbing and straining against his zip, begging insistently to be acknowledged. 

It took a very long time for him to fall asleep, but eventually he did. 

When he woke, he was so comfortable, so warm and with such delightful pressure on his body he only groaned and tried to go back to sleep. He hadn’t slept so well in months, he didn’t want it to end. But, as such is the way of nice things, it couldn’t last. The realization that  _ Crowley  _ was the source of the delightful pressure, their whole body wrapped around his as they slept, was like being dropped in the river. 

_ Oh no. Oh no, oh no oh no no no no no…  _ His dick filled and his whole body started to ache with want. He couldn’t, he couldn’t scare them like last time. With glacial movements, he slid off the edge, disentangling Crowley as slowly and gently as possible so as to not wake them, and blessedly, finally, were free. He tiptoed to the bathroom, snagging his phone on the way, and shut himself inside. 

_ For god’s sake, go away! No one needs you here! _ He rebuked his erection, but it remained unfazed. Really, what did he expect? For months and months the closest he had to privacy was his time in the bathroom. If he wasn't at work he was with his kids, or Crowley, or in the car parked in a public place. His body had been most demanding throughout, and had been having regular nocturnal emissions since his forced celibacy, presumably in protest. Being Crowley's bodyguard had increased those protests, but he ignored them as just a biological quirk. After his complete failure at the company gym, he had practiced better discipline and had no further conscious indiscretions. There was a godliness in refraining, in refusing to revel in earthly pleasures. No matter how soul-crushing denying himself was, he certainly wasn't going to give in to his corporeal complaints in Crowley's own home. He  _ wasn't _ .

He successfully distracted himself with a book (though it took 20 painful minutes). He left the safety of the bathroom to find Crowley happily snoozing away, and took a moment to drink in the sight. They were so cute, drooling a little into their pillow, sprawled and tangled in their blanket. Their hands were so elegant, so long and relaxed, their sharp elbows akimbo. It was a privilege to see them so unmasked, their carefully constructed persona gone, their defenses down. 

He settled on Crowley's ridiculous throne, which turned out to be much more comfortable than it looked, and read until they woke up. Which was adorable. They were so bleary and grumpy as they dragged themselves out of bed and did their morning tasks. They were so blessed to be able to see this side of them, incandescent with gratitude that they’d let him into their life. That they had wanted to become friends. 

* * *

Coffee always left them feeling warm and pleased in the mornings. They had thought it was the pinnacle of waking-up pleasures. They were wrong. 

Today, they had discovered a pleasure that far eclipsed it, when their insides had been replaced with sunbeams, and they felt like they might float away with happiness. Fell had kept looking at them like they were a Christmas tree full of presents as they had been waking up and it had turned them to goo. Then he had made them a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and homemade scones, happily babbling about baking as they ate, gesturing and smiling and over-enthusiastic, and it had done the rest. They loved it, all of it, and wanted more so badly it pulled at them, stretched them, caught them leaning towards Fell as they ate like he was magnetic.

"Did you sleep alright?" they asked. 

Fell blushed and replied, "I did."

"Good…” They hesitated, fidgeting with their silverware, before just blurting it out. “Will you come back? Next time you have work?" 

"Oh… Well, I wouldn't want to be a burden. I work nights every Monday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Wouldn't that be a bit much?"

"No, definitely not." Everyday for the rest of their life sounded the perfect amount. Four days a week was a mere pittance.

"You're sure?"

" _ Completely _ ." 

“... Alright.”

They got ready for the day together, awkwardly arranging who was using the bathroom when and for what, unsure around each other and both clearly trying not to upset the other. Too much blushing was involved on their part— a lovely amount of blushing was involved on Fell’s. 

They made it to their weekly meeting at K.U.D. without incident, as long as you didn’t consider developing cardiac arrhythmias because of the way your bodyguard looked at you like he looked at tiramisu. 

Anathema greeted them as chipper as always, offering a drink and complaining about the massive to-do list of crunch time. London Fashion Week was coming up fast and noses were to the grindstone. 

“First on the agenda, we’ve decided that we prefer the mid-length look, so Newt’s going to cut and style your hair today. Then we’ll try out our three finalist looks for the runway. We’re not sure yet if we want you to open or close the show. Either way you’re the headliner, so it’s coming down to which look we like best on you. Sound good?”

“Sure,” Crowley said. They had never headlined a runway and would happily do whatever it took to do so, though their guts were churning. Probably because they’d booked three other runways during fashion week, and they were worried they’d be dropped after the change. 

Newt had set up a station in the corner, complete with a barber chair and everything. Anathema pulled him off hand stitching in the back, his poor hands shaking with nerves as he slowly pulled a needle. He took a bit to calm down and set up, chatting the whole time about anything that came to mind, as usual. Crowley let him, chiming in just enough to encourage him to keep stuttering out his newfound sewing knowledge.

When they finally sat in the chair, their hands were shaking, just enough that the barber’s cape covering them rustled with it. 

_ It’s just a haircut! Why the fuck are you afraid? _ They’d gotten their hair trimmed plenty of times. Nothing this radical, nothing that would ever… 

The voice of their Dad rang in their head.  _ You’d look horrible. Why don’t you just tape a sign to your face that says “Fucked up Freak”? Get the point across faster.  _

They bit their lip, trying to banish it’s echoes. It was going to be fine. This was what their bosses wanted them to look like, they weren’t going to be shocked, weren’t going to be disgusted. No one would find out about them if they had shorter hair. 

Each little snick-snick of the shears seemed so loud, echoing in their ears. They could feel it being cut, could feel the weight of their head changing for the first time, the tickle of hair falling from them. They had to hold still, hide their trembling as someone else’s hands—someone else’s tools— removed a part of them they’d had all their life. 

_ Stop shaking you useless worm! You never even liked having long hair! It was always so much work to make it look good. How are you even going to make this look good? Stop whining, it’s not about you, it’s not a stupid whim you fucked everything up with! They’re doing this because it’s what. they. want. Don’t start freaking out about it. Just sit here, hold still, and let them do what they want to you and everything will be fine!  _

Their vision was getting blurry and they blinked rapidly, trying to clear it. They were such a stupid mess. What kind of self-absorbed piece of work cried over a haircut? It was just hair. It grew back. They swallowed, felt their neck pushing against the collar. Why did the stupid cape need to be so tight?

Newt finished cutting, got out the creams and curling iron, and Anathema came over. The horrible feeling of wetness shifting in their nose threatened to give away their stupid, pathetic reaction. They sniffed, hard, and covered it by faking a sneeze. Couldn’t be seen bawling by their employers about having to do their job. That would really inspire trust and confidence in their professionalism. 

Anathema cooed over their hair, praising Newt with a hand around his shoulders, emphasizing it with pats to his arm. She said it was just how they wanted, telling Crowley how good they looked, how versatile this length would be. They believed her. They did. But their stupid body didn’t. Newt finished up and handed them a hand mirror so they could see.

They didn’t look like themselves anymore. 

_ That’s so stupid, of fucking course you look like you! Your hair’s just shorter. You like this length, you like the ambiguity, you’ve always just been too much of a chicken shit to try it. They did you a favor! _

“Looks lovely, Newt. Thank you,” they said, smiling wide and bright. 

“Great!” said Anathema with a clap. “I’ve already laid out the looks in the dressing room, if you’d start on the left?”

They did, walking each for all the designers as they watched and argued amongst themselves. By the time they were done a hollowness had settled under their ribs, numbing them. The rest of the meeting went by in a blur, and then they were home, Fell watching him with soft eyes.

“Is there anything I can do for you, my dear? Perhaps a spot of lunch?” he said as Crowley packed away their accessories for the day, studiously avoiding touching their hair. 

“No, I’ll just throw something together. You should go. Go have a nice day with your family.”

Fell paused, his hands held together in front of him, on the verge of saying something. But then he shifted, moving to clasp them behind him, spine straighter as his face grew blank and still. All that came out was, “As you wish.”

“See you… See you later. I’ll text.” 

Yet again, they’d chosen to be alone.

* * *

When they woke up the next morning they felt off, until they remembered their hair, which wasn’t touching them, wasn’t tangled around their shoulders. They spent some time in the bathroom, just playing with it, trying to feel like it was normal, because it  _ was  _ their normal now, for the foreseeable future. 

It wouldn’t fucking give them any peace, constantly reminding them of the change. It kept falling into their mouth when they were trying to eat. Or over their eyes when they were using their phone. But it was too short to pull back into a ponytail. 

They reached a compromise, pulling the top half into a bun, letting the rest hover over their shoulders, and it settled there. 

Working from home for the next day helped them acclimate to the change, though they missed Fell. He would be back tomorrow night, though, in the wee hours. To sleep over. 

It was pathetic how much they were looking forward to it. 

There was a knock at their door. They weren’t expecting anyone, having taken Fell up on their advice to forgo deliveries, so they ignored it, but it repeated. With a sigh, they checked the peephole.

It was Constable Angel. 

“Just a moment!” Crowley called, unlocking the door, and opening it. “Constable. What’s going on? Caught the guy?”

“I’m afraid not Miss Crowley. We have had a few developments that I can report to you. Firstly, we found evidence at the scene that confirmed your testimony, including CCTV footage of the initial assault and him dragging you into the alley. Unfortunately, the attacker obscured his face so we could not get an ID from the footage. He is approximately 6’3 and pale skinned. We did get a partial ID of the vehicle: It was a 2008 Audi A5. The number plate had been altered to be non-reflective and wasn’t visible in the footage, so be on alert for any cars like that around you. Let us know if you encounter any or otherwise have any leads.”

“Right. Okay. Thanks.”

He nodded, pulled out a stack of papers from his bag, and handed them to Crowley. “Here is a copy of the official report, as requested. I can’t send it to Darling or your employer, but I can give it to you to use as you will.”

They looked down at the paperwork in their hands, not really seeing it. “Can I ask, why do you call him that?”

“Oh, I know. I really shouldn’t. It’s not very professional of me.”

_ Yes, exactly! _ thought Crowley as they nodded. “So were you two… personal then?

“Not precisely. We met in our extracurriculars. We both studied Jiu-Jitsu at the same dojo, and then I joined a fencing class he was co-teaching.”

So, he wasn’t an ex. Some sort of martial arts colleague? That still seemed strange. The Constable must have noticed their dubiousness because he continued. 

“I really shouldn’t call him that anymore, without the “Mr.”, but it was a joke at the dojo. Once he became friendly with everyone there he told us his full name, but Darling just… really suits him, you know? Because he  _ is  _ such a sweet guy, so I just...kept calling him Darling. I never felt like I knew him well enough to use Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale… that’s A. Z. Fell.”

The constable huffed a laugh. “Yeah, his alias isn’t very creative. His boss came up with it, and he makes him use that terrible fake name so he sounds more intimidating. It doesn’t suit him, and he hates it.” 

Crowley stood there, silent. Fell wasn’t Fell?

The constable waited as the silence grew pregnant, unaware of the source, the sinking feeling plummeting Crowley’s heart through the floor. “My direct number is on the report, so again, please call if you have any new information. Stay safe,” said Constable Angel. 

“Yeah...you too,” he replied distantly. The constable put his hat back on, tipped it, and then left. 

Crowley retreated back into their flat, locking themselves in, and finally looked down at the police report, scanning until something caught their eye.

_ Incident reported by a Miss Antoinette Crowley and Mister Aziraphale Darling describing an assault… Victim was escorted to the station afterwards by their hired bodyguard, Aziraphale Darling… Mr. Darling unlocked the handcuffs using gloves and a plastic bag to preserve evidence. No signs of tampering or contamination but no prints were found… Victim escorted home with Aziraphale Darling...  _

Fell had lied to them. Fell was  _ still  _ lying to them. His name wasn’t A.Z. Fell. It was  _ Aziraphale Darling _ . 

He hated the name Fell, apparently, but he would tell his friends his real name. Their mind supplied memories of Fell thinking Lucky was talking to him when he called Crowley darling. He remembered Jesse and the other advanced students calling him their Darling. He had told his other students his real name. He had told an  _ entire dojo _ his real name. He was so used to being called Darling that a stranger yelling across a lawn seemed directed at him.

Yet, he had never told Crowley. Even though they were his student. Even though he’d said they were friends. He was pretending to be someone else the whole time. They weren’t friends. 

_ It was all a lie.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley: *has a feeling*  
> Also Crowley: the fuck is this shit? The fuck is wrong with you! Disgusting. 
> 
> The constable is a Hot Fuzz crossover, because I cannot be contained. 
> 
> Additional thanks to [ slateblueflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers) for beta-ing. I had a bunch of pernicious pronoun errors she found for me. 
> 
> Saving the best for last, Delamata drew [ this LOVELY fanart of Crowley’s first day in Beginner’s Defensive Arts class. ](https://delamata.tumblr.com/post/627304306737037312/thanks-i-worked-on-this-all-week) It’s so wonderful and really captures the moment! Go look and give Kudos!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for canon-typical drinking/drunkenness in this chapter. In vino veritas! 
> 
> Praise and thanks to my betas on this chapter, Slateblueflowers and ItstheKiks. 
> 
> And best of all there are two new fanarts! Delamata blessed us with [Crowley in their lingerie look from the photoshoot in ch 8](https://delamata.tumblr.com/post/627743547788034048/crowley-crowley-in-tartan-lingerie-inspired-by) AND [ night time bed moments from chapter 10!!](https://delamata.tumblr.com/post/628276700808134656/a-model-guardian-chapter-10-this-fanfic-gives-me) Everyone should go look they are so lovely!

Aziraphale’s stomach was fluttering with a multitude of feelings as he walked up to Crowley’s flat to spend their third night together. Nervousness and excitement mainly, but it was a complicated cocktail brewing in there, definitely shaken, not stirred. He knocked, and waited. No answer. 

He’d learned that Crowley slept soundly. Perhaps they were just down for the night? He hesitated, not sure if he should wake them up or give up and go back to the car when the door cracked, the chain still latched. One golden eye peered out, puffy and red. 

“What do  _ you  _ want?” Crowley said in a thick, cracked voice. 

“What? You invited me—” Aziraphale started, confused and concerned, when Crowley cut him off with a scoff. 

“No. No, I invited  _ Fell _ . I don’t know who the fuck you are, but I know that you’re not Fell. Fell issss a lie.  _ A fake _ . It wasss all fake.” They sneered, “I don’t know who you are,  _ Darling _ .” 

With the snarl they had said his name with still curling their lip, they slammed the door in his face. 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure exactly what was happening, or how things had ended up like this but a few things were crystal clear. Crowley was hurt. Hurting and drunk, by the smell. Alone, upset, and hurt. And it was his fault. He had to fix this. He had to.

He knocked again, louder this time. Crowley cracked the door, and before they could say anything, Aziraphale rushed to explain. 

“I’m sorry, I thought it would only complicate things unnecessarily, that it was a trivial detail and didn’t want to confuse you with Tracy and pretending to be dating and all your employers—”

“Right, Right.” Crowley glared, sarcasm dripping as they said, “Oh, I’ve just been lying about who I was this whole time, pretending to be your friend, pretending to like you and pretending to be your boyfriend and I didn’t want to make all  _ my lies  _ more complicated by telling  _ you  _ the truth. You know, I'm the one taking acting classes, but I should have never bothered because you sure are schooling me.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, desperate to explain. If only he said the right words, Crowley would see and everything would be okay, but before he could Crowley interrupted, yelling, “I don't want to hear any more from you. You are a LIAR. Your friend already let the cat out of the bag,  _ Aziraphale _ . You tell your friends your real name. You hate being called Fell. Yeah?” They pulled back and spat, “That’s enough for me. We’re not friends. You don’t even like me.” Their voice hitched on that last part and they turned away, leaving only a dark crevice with a chain. When they spoke again, it was choked, straining to say. “Right... Bye.” 

And the door slammed shut, the clinks of locks being thrown in their bolts. Aziraphale was left standing in the quiet hallway, blinking back tears and wringing his hands.

He had really messed up. It had seemed such a small detail at the time, something that was best to just put off, deal with later, but Crowley was right. He had lied. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but it was a lie by omission. He should have told them sooner, let them decide if it would complicate their work, would risk their image. They were the expert on image management. It was all a lot, all confusing and dangerous and difficult for Aziraphale, and seeing how it had ended up, he'd clearly chosen wrong. 

Crowley had a right to be angry with him. The dim hallway blurred. Their first real friend in years, of only a handful of people in their lifetime who liked him at all and he had ruined it.  _ What a surprise _ . 

Tears flowed down his face, and he tried to wipe them away but there were just too many. He sighed and gave up. 

He couldn’t leave, as much as he’d like to go hide in the privacy of the car, bawl his eyes out and feel sorry for himself. Crowley had been attacked last time they were drunk, and they had been much less drunk then. There was no way he could leave them alone like this. What if they got so drunk they forgot and left the flat? What if their stalker was watching, waiting for another chance? He couldn’t let Crowley get hurt. Well, get more hurt than what Aziraphale already had inflicted.

He took up a station, back to the door, assuming parade rest. The tears kept streaming, unchecked. He’d stay here and guard the door until morning, until Crowley could hire a new bodyguard. 

* * *

Weeping was exhausting, and as Crowley laid there aching and wrung out after crying, again, they wished they weren’t so weak that they kept doing it. The empty scotch bottle had rolled onto the floor, but the vodka on their nightstand still had a bit in it. It was time to finish drowning their feelings and go to sleep. They'd had a good start, spending the evening drinking and bawling like the baby they were, crying over how stupid they were, to fall in love with a facade. They had known, from day one, that he'd been too good, too perfect and wonderful to be true. 

So they'd wept, and grieved, and waited for  _ Aziraphale _ to show up. And now he had, and it was over, and they were alone, the silence of their empty, concrete flat ringing in their ears. 

There was a sniff. 

Crowley sat up, wiped the tears from their eyes and looked around. Nothing. 

Another sniff, just barely audible, coming from the hallway. They wobbled over to look out of the peephole. 

That fucker was standing there, guarding the door. Snarling, they threw the locks and ripped open the door. Before they could say anything, Fell turned around and the words evaporated from their tongue.

His face was covered with tear tracks, wetness still flowing from puffy eyes down his blotchy cheeks, a portrait of abject misery.

Their anger fizzled at the shocking sight of Fell like that, like a sparkler waved too enthusiastically, the tip snuffing into darkness, leaving only its afterimage. Fell was always so happy, barely ever frowned even. Nothing like this. They hadn’t expected anything this raw and… leaking. 

"Why are you doing that?" Crowley blurted out. 

"My apologies." He said, straining to sound like his normal, chipper self. "I only want to ensure your safety. I'm sure you'd rather not see me anymore, but I'm afraid I can't leave you unguarded while you're inebriated. I'll be gone in the morning once a replacement can be found, I assure you."

"No, I meant… why are you crying?"

Fell opened his mouth to speak, but only a croak came out. His face screwed up as he tried again, choking out a hushed, "I lost my best friend." He turned back around, unable to face them, his hands clutching each other so hard they were white, trembling, but he didn't say another word. 

Crowley's heart thumped in their chest, as if it pounded hard enough it could reach him. They stared at his back, stiff and tight, like his professionalism was all that was holding him together. Their shoulders drooped, losing the last of their heat. _ That’s right, this is all just a job to him. _ He was only here because his job was their bodyguard, otherwise he’d be long gone. Their grip slipped, their hand sliding down the door. Their whole body grew leaden, the weight of it all crushing them. They took two shuffling steps backwards, leaving the door wide open. “Get in here.”

He darted a glance, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Crowley growled, gesturing wildly in annoyance, throwing themselves off-balance with it. “Just get in here already!”

“Yes, sir,” he said, his head hanging low between his shoulders. Crowley stumbled back to the bed, grabbed the vodka and took a swig, not drunk enough to deal with any of this, and heard the door being shut and locked by Fell— Darl— Aziraphale?  _ Bloody hell, this name nonsense is confusing _ . 

Whoever he was, he stood behind the door, his forehead pressed to the wood. Crowley plopped down on their bed, watching. After a long pause he straightened, locked his hands together behind his back, and stared at the wall. Like he was a child someone had put in the corner for a time-out. 

“You look ridiculous.”

“I’m used to people thinking that,” he mumbled to the door. “looking like this. Being like this.”

Crowley scoffed and fell backwards to sprawl over their bed. "See that's the problem. I  _ don't  _ know what you're like."

There was the rustle of clothing, a step. Crowley rolled their neck to look and was instantly captured by those watery blue eyes. Facing them, he said in a small voice, "I swear to you, I was always myself with you, always genuine. What you called me, beyond your friend, seemed a trivial detail. I'm sorry I hurt you." His face scrunched up and his tears started falling again. "I never meant to hurt you." 

He turned back to face the wall. 

Minutes ticked by but there was nothing further, sans the occasional sniff. Crowley stared up at the ceiling, at the wiggling shadowed shapes in the white plaster. They were drunk enough that they looked like a hundred faces looking down on them, judging them. A glimpse of the heavens, right there on their ceiling, and heaven did not approve of what they saw in Crowley.

They broke the silence. "Why are you facing the wall?"

"I don't wish to intrude upon your privacy. I know I am unwelcome here."

“Then why  _ are  _ you here?” they mumbled.

“As I said—" 

_ Of course he heard you, you drunken idiot.  _

"—I think it would be unwise to leave you unguarded, in light of what occurred the last time you had alcohol.”

_ Ah. Of course. It’s his job. It’s always just been his job. No one would care about you if they weren’t being paid to do it. They never have and they never will. _

Suddenly, Fell grabbed their hand, and Crowley jumped, yanking it back. Fell was sitting beside them, and he leaned in to say, “Don’t. Please. Please don’t say such horrid things. That’s not true. None of that is true. I’m begging you to believe me. _ I care about you. _ I truly, from the bottom of my heart,  _ care _ . I would even if I wasn’t earning a cent.”

Crowley blinked, confused, and their vision swam from all the fast movements, both literal and figurative. Their poor brain, marinating in scotch, latched on to the easiest question to answer first. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Yes?”

“Didn’t mean to do that.” They shrunk back, feeling exposed, and jammed themselves into the crevice of the bed and wall to hug their knees. “Though I was jussst thinking it.”

“Please don’t think it, either. I promise you. I care deeply about you, and it has nothing to do with the pay.”

This time they couldn't ignore what he'd said. “I  _ thought  _ that.” Crowley’s lip quivered. “I had thought… I  _ thought  _ you liked me.”

“I  _ do  _ like you. I like you very much. I have for a long time.”

“You  _ can’t  _ have.” They shivered, and their stomach churned, sour and full of acid. “You get to be everyone else's Darling and you wouldn't even tell me your real name.” 

He recoiled as if struck, turning away. His face pinched in pain and he wiped his palms on his pants, bit his lip, and stared into the distance.

Finally he spoke, in a hoarse whisper, "... I couldn't bear it. You were the one person I most wanted to hear it from, for it to be real. But I couldn't bear it to be just a joke to you, like everyone else. It was hard enough to… to pretend to be your boyfriend, to think about it and daydream about it, all while knowing that, in reality, someone like  _ you  _ would never want someone like  _ me _ . I couldn't bear it if you called me your Darling like everyone does, like it's  _ funny _ . I know I'm not… boyfriend material, and that you would never even pretend to date someone like me if you had another choice, that you hated people thinking we were together… I know you of all people would never lower yourself like that…" He wiped fresh tears from his face, huffed, and turned away. 

“You… whut?” Crowley rubbed their head, hoping to make it spin a bit less. That had been… a lot of words. A lot of important words. He was… “You think… you’re beneath me?”

Fell hummed, dabbing his face with his sleeves. “You don’t need to rub it in.”

“No! That’sss…” Crowley swallowed, annoyed that they were slurring. They weren’t that drunk, were they? They tried again, “You are too!”

“Pardon?”

“Boyfriend material. You are! I think ssso. I would.” 

“You would what?” 

“Date you. Wasn’t… I never thought I was better than you. I wasss never upset about people thinking that.”

“You don’t need to lie to me, Crowley.” Fell said softly, without making eye contact. “You made it very clear on several occasions how much you hated having to pretend I was your boyfriend and not your bodyguard. That being seen as dating me was humiliating.”

“It wasn’t that. It was embarrassssing.”

“That’s close enough,” Fell huffed. 

“No,  _ you  _ aren’t embarrassing.  _ They  _ are. You’ve seen them, right? Half the people I work with couldn’t give two shits about me, and the other half are a mix of twats, creeps, and prats... with just a few decent people who care sprinkled in for flavor. Anyway. They want to sit around and feel smug about how much better they are, talk down about people. And I hate watching their smug eyes. Looking at me all… sssmug.” Crowley snarled, teeth flashing. “Hate it. Ha— Hate ‘em. Not you. You’re great, you’re perfect. I don’t like to talk about anything personal, I don’t want their greasy little paws touching anything that matters…” He paused, his throat tightening. “You mattered.”

Fell looked confused, brows drawn sharply down, looking around the room as if the grey walls would tell him what was happening. They uncoiled, flopping like a fish on their belly, hiding their flushed face in the sheets. This was weird. 

“I’m not drunk enough for this,” they mumbled into the bed. 

Fell huffed again, this time in disbelief, “I think you’re probably drunk enough for the both of us.”

Crowley flung themselves over, banging their wrist on the wall, “Are you sassing me?”

“Perhaps.” That was more like him. More what they'd come to expect. None of this tearful nonsense. Just Fell being a bit of a bastard to someone who deserved it. 

Crowley swiveled around, tangling themselves up in the blanket and then failing to untangle themselves. The more they struggled the worse it got, involving nearly all the bedding somehow. When they gave up, their head was hanging off the edge of the bed, looking up at Fell. “You might be right.”

A wet chuckle. 

“And while we're on it, if anyone didn’t have a chance here it’s me. I mean. You’d never."

"What? Have you gone mad? As well as being drunk off your arse?" 

"Maybe. I'm having a real shit day." They tried again to disentangle their arms and failed. It only got tighter. Everything was wrapped up around themselves, like a burrito. 

Fell rolled his eyes, "Don't be an idiot. Of course I would. Obviously."

"Obviously." Crowley mocked. "Liar. You would never date me. You're gay!"

"So? You're extremely attractive. Don't play dumb, you know that. It's your job! You know you look good. You certainly say so often enough." 

"I'm not exactly winning Mr. Universe here! I've got tits! They're tiny but they're there! You can't be attracted to people with tits!"

"What does that matter?"

"It's the definition of gay! Man who likes men and big dicks and shit like that!"

"Well despite looking like this, my libido isn't actually dictated by what's written in the dictionary. Why are you so hung up on labels?"

"Because it matters!"

"If labels mattered so much then you would have some for yourself, Mr. I-don't-even-know-what-pronouns-I-prefer, who-even-knows-what-gender-is!" 

And maybe it was all the blood and alcohol pooling in their head, maybe it was the ludicrousness of yelling at each other about this while tangled, upside down and half off their bed. Maybe it was just the tension inside them finally breaking. Maybe it was even the growing realization that Fell really did like them. Maybe even like-liked them.

Crowley laughed. Full bodied, deep from the gut, belly laughs. After a while it calmed to giggles, but then ramped right back up to cackles when they looked at Fell. 

Fell watched, confused at first, still riled up, but it proved too infectious even for his seriousness, and he started laughing along. Crowley's eyes started watering, and they weren't sure if it was from laughing or if they were about to start crying again. 

It faded, leaving a softer silence, almost comfortable. 

"How much longer are you going to hang there?" 

" 'M stuck. Turned myself into a snake on accident." They undulated, wiggling their body in great waves for emphasis. "Can't seem to turn back."

"Good lord, Crowley, quit that. You'll fall on your head… You are completely soused!" He stood, bending over them and picked them up, blankets and all, resettling them on the bed proper. 

_ Fuck fuck fuck. I forgot how strong he was.  _ A hot shiver rolled through their body, leaving their skin warm and tingly in its wake. Fell knelt, hovering over them, and started unwrapping all the bedding, peeling it away layer by layer. It was like being undressed, slowly. They looked up at him as he concentrated, strong and in control. Fell was going to get to the center and just keep going, until Crowley was all spread out for them, to do whatever he pleased. 

They moaned. 

Fell froze. 

"Uh," they said, dumbly. They licked their lips, trying to scrounge up words, but the motion drew Fell's gaze. They slowed, tracing along their top lip with the tip of their tongue, letting their mouth fall open as they pulled it back in, their breathing heavy. 

The way Fell looked at them, watched their mouth, it was like they were the best dessert on the menu, like they were a dinner at the Ritz he'd saved up for a special occasion. Sharp desire filled the room with every moment that passed, a haze of lust that made their breath hitch. 

"You do want me," Crowley said, their voice so filled with awe it sounded like a prayer. 

Fell sat back, turning away, his face reddening. He looked at his lap and picked at his nails, before flicking a glance back and whispering in a husky voice, "I do."

Crowley moaned again. "Kiss me." 

Fell jumped. "What?!"

"I want you, oh you have no idea how much I want you. Kiss me."

"Absolutely not! Out of the question!"

"Why not?"

"You are compromised!"

"What, 'cause I'm stuck in the sheets? No, look, I can probably wiggle free now." They struggled, managing to pop out one of their arms. "See?"

"No, you idiot! Because you're completely legless!"

"Well gimme a minute I'll wriggle those out too."

"Not," he heaved a sign and face palmed. "You're drunk as a skunk. You're intoxicated. You are totally incapable of consenting to anything. I'm  _ not  _ going to kiss you."

"Oh." Crowley pouted. The sting of rejection hurt, even if it was mollified by the knowledge that Fell wanted them. Had said that he was attracted to them, would date them.

Fell heaved another sigh, and looked up at the ceiling, mumbling. Crowley only caught bits, like "Lord, give me strength" and "please, God, if this is a test let it be over soon." 

"Are you  _ praying _ ?" 

He mumbled on for a moment before saying, exasperated, " _ Yes _ , Crowley." 

"I didn't know you were religious."

"I have a strained relationship with my faith." He turned, crawling back over them to work on untangling them from their linens. 

" 'Cause 'ah the gay thing?" 

"Yes. And parent things."

"Mmm. They're a bunch of tossers anyway. Fuck 'em.” Crowley sucked on their bottom lip. “Mmmm… I like it when you're over me like that."

Fell paused, and if he could have gotten any redder, they suspected he would have. He resumed pulling at the sheets. "Crowley," he said, enunciating each word with precision and weight, "it is after four in the morning and you are drunk. I'm going to get you up, in your pajamas, full of water, and then you are  _ going to sleep _ ."

"By myself?"

" _ Yes _ ."

The wobble in their lips returned, as did their tears. They were fucking  _ crying _ again. Fell finished, freeing them at last, but they didn't move. 

Crowley begged, "Please, don't leave me. I don't want to be alone anymore." 

Fell turned sharply, saw their face, and his own wrinkled in sympathy. "Oh no, oh, my dear." He pulled them up into a hug, and Crowley clung to him, sobbing out their grief from earlier. Today had been a lot of feelings and even the good ones were blubbering out of them, mixed in with all the fear and grief and anxiety. 

They cried for a long while, Fell rubbing their back and making soothing noises, before it finally petered out.

"I'm not going anywhere, my dear heart. It's okay. Everything is alright now,” he murmured. They dropped their hands where they’d been crushing his suit, sniffing up the dregs and wiping their face. "Now, where are your pajamas?"

"Already in them, basically."

"Good. Lie down. Let me tuck you in."

They did, Fell settling the newly rearranged sheets and blankets around them. He fetched them a tall glass of water, which they drank, and then returned with it full "for later, in case you get thirsty." He turned off the lights, settled on the bed beside him, sitting against the wall, and Crowley cozied up against his thigh, one hand tentatively on his knee. 

"Now, go to sleep. I'll be here, watching over you."

"Mmm. Like m'guardian angel."

"Precisely." He ran his fingers through their hair, shorter now, easier to card his fingers through, and before they knew it, they were asleep. 

* * *

Crowley woke in the early morning, it's chipper sunbeams assaulting their eyes even through their gummy-stuck closed lids. They were still drunk, but they had to piss, so they reluctantly peeled themselves off their bodyguard, who was snoring slightly as he slept sitting up against the wall. 

They did so, chugged the glass of water left for them, pulled the shade on their window, turned off their alarms, and crawled back into bed. It was a gift to smash the side of their face into those thick thighs, hard muscle under soft padding, and so they thought nothing of partaking. 

The next time they woke it was alone, sprawled out on their bed, head pounding and stomach an acid-filled void. 

They supposed they deserved it, having drunk so much. Seeing as how they'd made an arse of themselves, they deserved to be abandoned, they knew that much. Everything that had happened yesterday night was a bit… blurry. But it made sense that they’d be ditched and then be stuck with a hangover. 

"Are you awake?" Fell's posh, cheerful voice asked. Crowley sat up and found they weren't alone. Fell was sitting at their desk, his reading set aside so that he could give them his full attention. 

Bleary eyed and hungover, they grunted. He must have understood because he pointed to the nightstand. "I've set out more water and a few tablets for you, my dear. I'll have some food for you shortly." 

Sure enough, there they were. Crowley took them, grateful they didn't have to try and dig them out of the bright bathroom themselves, while their bodyguard bustled about their kitchenette. In short order they were presented with a hangover breakfast in bed of two scrambled eggs, toast, a banana, some honey, a glass of milk, and a glass of water, all laid out on their nightstand, Fell beaming at them over it all. 

"I thought I'd chased you off."

His smile slipped. "You nearly had. If that's still what you want I'll call to have a new bodyguard arranged for you." 

"No." They swallowed, and took a swig of their milk to calm their stomach. "Unless that's what you want." 

"It isn't."

The silence stretched thin, and Crowley picked at their breakfast. It was helping their stomach and their headache was subsiding, but it was hard to eat in the awkward atmosphere. Fell fidgeted, twiddling his thumbs at the desk. 

"So… uh, what should I call you?" Crowley said. 

"Ah. Right." His eyes darted around the room, anywhere but at Crowley on their bed. "Whatever you are comfortable with."

This was a lot harder sober. Crowley set their fork down with a clatter, and he flinched. 

"Okay, that is not helpful. I'm a bit fuzzy on the details but I gathered you don't want me to call you Darling."

"Oh… wh— well… that's." He fussed with his buttons. "What do you remember?"

Crowley sighed and held up a hand, ticking off each point with their fingers. "I'm mad at you for lying to me. You lied because you didn't think it was a big deal. You lied because you didn't want to tell me your real name because you didn't want me to call you Darling. I like you. You like me too." Finished, they wiggled their fingers at him, a coy wave.

He pressed his lips. "That's not entirely correct. I do like you a great deal. Both as a friend and… a romantic prospect. That's true. The issue is more that I would find it hurtful if you called me Darling in most circumstances, but not all of them."

"Well what do your friends call you?"

"That varies. Most of my friends use whatever name I work with them under."

"Wait, all of them? Don't you have any friends that aren't from work?"

"I'm afraid not." He looked ashamed. 

"One more thing we have in common, then," They offered with a smile, and they were beyond pleased when he smiled back, bashful and cute. "What do your kids call you?"

"Aziraphale." 

"If you don't mind then I'll stick to that."

"What about your job? Your reputation?"

"You let me worry about that."

"Fair enough."

Crowley picked up their cutlery and finished their breakfast, while Aziraphale waited, pink in the cheeks and nervous. 

"So… are we still friends?" they asked. 

"I hope so."

"Good.” They fidgeted, unsure of themselves. What if it was all drunken shenanigans? What if asking for more ruined their only good friendship? But they itched to know, the want crawling under their skin wouldn’t calm down so they asked, “What about the rest?" 

"The, um," his voice grew shrill, with a note of panic. "Rest?"

Maybe this was a horrible idea after all, but they’d started, might as well finish. "Dating, stuff like that."

Aziraphale was quiet, slowly turning bright red again. Crowley braced themselves. This wasn’t going to go well.

"I'm not… I don't want to rush into anything. I know you were disappointed that I wouldn't bed you last night but—” 

Crowley laughed, a breaking of the tension that had built in them. "Bed you? For the love of— I'm not a Victorian damsel.” Aziraphale pursed his lips at the tease, and it helped dissipate their remaining fear. They were not being dumped for being an idiot, that much was clear. “Besides I'm not ready for that either, not… Not talking about that stuff."

Aziraphale slumped, relieved. "Oh thank God. I thought you might be terribly hurt that I deflected your physical advances."

"Nah.” They played it off, acting casual. Fussed a bit arranging the dirty dishes from breakfast. “Well, perhaps a bit dejected."

"Did you still want one?"

"One what?"

"A kiss."

Crowley swallowed. Fell— Aziraphale looked so intent, so ready. It set their heart pounding in their throat, flushing their skin. That part of their memory was clear, the revelation of open lust in his eyes. They’d doubted it, but seeing it again now was a gift. They drank in the sight, and nodded. 

Aziraphale walked over, and they felt each step closing the distance tugging at their ribs, like they were magnetic. 

He stood over them, crowding their legs together against the side of the bed, and they could feel their eyes widening as they looked up at him. 

"Is this alright?" he asked softly.

Their stomach was flipping around, jamming up their throat, so all they managed was a garbled series of consonants and a nod. Fell put one hand on their shoulder and leaned down slowly. 

Up close his eyes were even more beautiful, like a Jackson Pollock painting of white and brown and blue and green, hooded with pale lashes. His lips were parted ever so slightly, and his breath flowed across their skin. They tilted up to meet him and closed their eyes, anticipation sending shivers up their spine. 

Just as the vulnerability of it threatened to send them retreating in a panic their lips met, soft and warm and pliant. It was thrilling. It was indescribably intimate in its timidity and care. They nuzzled, shifting the angle, causing their lips to slide against one another in a delicious way. 

They kissed like that for a moment longer before Aziraphale drew back, his pupils deep inky pools and face slack. 

"Do that again," Crowley commanded, and he instantly obeyed, the force of his return turning their second kiss hard, desperate. It added a delicious spice that Aziraphale seemed to echo, as it lasted much longer and was quite a bit more vigorous than their first. About halfway through, Aziraphale managed to sit down beside them on the bed without disruption, and when he pulled back he looked starstruck.

"May I hold your hand?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley chuckled. "Of course you can, you formal prat. Y’just kissed me." 

He was a little shaky as he reached out and took Crowley’s hands in both of his own. It made Crowley giggle more at the absurdity of it all, then roll their eyes at themselves, giggling like a schoolgirl over hand holding. But Aziraphale’s hands were warm and smooth and soft. Not the hands of someone who could deal the kind of beating he was capable of. 

Crowley slid their fingers across each other. They liked his hands; they were sexy. “We should get you a manicure,” he mumbled. 

Aziraphale hummed, watching their hands move together. “I’ve never had one.”

“I think you’ll like it. Let me take you out for one sometime?” 

“That sounds lovely.” He lit up, and Crowley basked in it. It was worth every penny. 

They stayed there, touching and happy, until Crowley’s bladder lodged an unconquerable protest and they had to excuse themselves to use the toilet. On their way back they noticed a stack of papers on their desk. 

“Ah, fuck, that’s right. The police report. What time is it?” Aziraphale shrugged, confused, so they scrounged for their phone, finding where half-asleep Crowley had tucked it that morning. It was after three— they had time. “I have to take this to my agency. Madame Tracy wanted it.”

“Of course.”

They freshened up and dressed, a bit of an awkward affair with their friend/something/kiss partner in the room. They made sure he wouldn't see anything, wouldn’t know, not like that was hard, but the inevitable rejection and disgust hovered over them. Everyone who had ever known had rejected them, had been disgusted by them. It was only a matter of time before Aziraphale found out and did the same, and they wanted to enjoy this, enjoy him, while it lasted. 

Their trip to the agency office was uneventful, and they fell back into the rhythms they’d had for these last several months. Crowley tried to give the file to their receptionist and leave, but apparently Madame Tracy had insisted on seeing them, popping out of her office at their voice and corralling them in. 

“Alright dearie, what have we got here?” She held the report delicately, perching some reading glasses on her nose as she looked through it. “Aziraphale Darling?” she asked. 

“Yes, Ma’am,” Aziraphale said. “The sergeant told me that under no circumstances would he be putting ‘A. Darling’ on any of my badges or name tags. Not intimidating enough for this line of work, he claims. He has me use an alias.” 

“That sounds exactly like him. I suppose he’s the one who came up with your pseudonym?” Aziraphale nodded. “It’s not very creative, but it suits his purposes I suppose. Fell is certainly more dire sounding.” She went back to reading the report. When she finished she took her glasses off, sitting them to the side and leveling Crowley with a serious look. 

“You’ve been taking this seriously this time?”

Aziraphale answered for them. “Yes. They aren’t leaving their apartment without me.”

She nodded. “Good.” She started shuffling the papers, getting out other folders. “Those strange, fake-sounding inquiries have stopped, which is good because maybe they gave up, but it's a bit disappointing that it doesn't give me anything to tell the police to catch this bastard faster. Have you been on the lookout for the car from the report?”

“No, this is the first I’m hearing of it,” he said. 

Crowley sighed when Tracy shot them a look. “I only got it last night, he hasn’t seen it yet. The get-away car was an Audi A5, black, and we’re to keep an eye out for it.”

“I’m not very good with cars, but there is often a black one parked at the end of your street,” he said.

“Is there?” said Madame Tracy.

Aziraphale nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out for it to come around again, see if I can investigate. Get a number plate.” 

“Excellent! You need to make sure that Crowley doesn’t get complacent. Hopefully the police will catch this stalker soon and we can put this whole thing behind us.”

And that was quite a thought. If the stalker was caught tomorrow, Aziraphale would be gone not too long after. Would he just up and leave completely? Would their friendship be over? No, surely not, he’d make time for them… Who were they kidding? Between a job and four kids when would they have time for Crowley? He wouldn’t, and Crowley would fall to the wayside. 

They supposed they should be grateful for their stalker, for the time that he had given them with Aziraphale. 

They wrapped up with Tracy, and she slathered affection and chiding in equal measures before air kisses and goodbyes. The trip home was usual, and when they got back to Crowley’s street, there was a black car parked at the end of the street. 

“Is that?” Crowley started.

“I suppose. I’m really not good with cars. That’s the usual spot, looking normal.” Aziraphale said. 

“Well let’s go look, see if it’s an Audi. I haven’t looked up what those look like yet.” Crowley started walking but Aziraphale grabbed their arm and jerked them back.

“No. If it’s your stalker and you approach he might panic or do something regrettable. We’ll look from the window in your apartment to get a better look. We should be able to see it from there, and if not, I’ll approach alone.”

Crowley conceded, and they went back to their flat. There was a piece of mail on the stoop, half shoved under the door. They bent to pick it up, and it was the same as the one they’d gotten last week - plain envelope, printed address label, no postage, no return address. They bent to retrieve it, gave it a good glaring at, and opened it. Empty, just like last time. 

“That’s strange,” said Aziraphale. 

“ ‘S Annoying. What’s the point of leaving going to the trouble of leaving you mail if there’s nothing in it,” They said as they unlocked their door. 

Aziraphale hummed. They entered and he went to the window. “To let you know that they were there. That they missed you. It’s like leaving a note, I suppose, albeit a blank one.” He looked out, squinting at the corner. “That car is gone now. Maybe it’s just a neighbor.”

“You mean… It’s here to let me know that he knows where I live?” Crowley said, and the unease they felt came out in their voice. Aziraphale whipped around, concerned. “To let me know that he’d been to my home?”

“Oh dear.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me in Chapter 1: But there was only one bed! (͠≖ ͜ʖ͠≖)   
> Me in chapter 5: That’s right Aziraphale, there’s only one bed at Crowley’s tiny flat!  
> Me writing these last several chapters: THERE! WAS! ONLY! ONE! BED! There shall only ever be one bed! (◉ω◉) 
> 
> As a head's up, next chapter's release might be delayed. Nothing bad, I'm just overbooked. Finger's crossed it isn't!


	13. Notoriety wasn't as good as fame, but was heaps better than obscurity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay getting this chapter out. If it helps, this week’s chapter is a long one (the longest one!), because we’re finally to London Fashion Week! I hope you all enjoy! 
> 
> Content warning on this chapter for talking about past abuse, embarrassment, and smut.

Crowley was nervous, and would have calmed their nerves with alcohol if they hadn't already drunk it all yesterday. It wasn’t going to let up on it’s own, since they had a lot of good reasons to be nervous. Their stalker knew where they lived and was making sure they knew that once a week (nerve-wracking). Once Aziraphale got back from work they would be sleeping together again. Were they supposed to act different? Were they supposed to kiss again, and if so, how? (nerve-wracking) Their mind was filled with doubts and fears and the ever-present knowledge that at some point they would fuck it up and it would end, it was just a matter of time. (nerve-wracking) 

If they were honest with themselves, they were lucky it hadn't already. They’d made an arse of themselves and didn’t think Aziraphale would be as forgiving as he seemed to be. Crowley paced, but it didn't help. They tried laying down and trying to relax. They even tried doing work, but nothing distracted them from fretting.

Aziraphale finally knocked, and they were exhausted yet as tense as a wound clock. When they answered the door, Aziraphale took one look and frowned at them. 

"Are you alright? Did something happen while I was away?" he asked, locking the door behind him. He set down a travel bag and took his shoes off. 

"No, no, what gives you that idea? Everything's fine." They fidgeted, not sure what to do with their hands, and ended up pacing a bit as well. 

Aziraphale stopped moving, his eyes tracking Crowley's movements. "You seem upset."

Crowley huffed, then sighed, then sat on their bed. Time to be honest. "Nervous. Never had… never had…" They vaguely gestured at the both of them and the bed. Shit, they were bad at being honest about embarrassing things. How were they supposed to ask about them when they didn’t know what they were?

Aziraphale turned red so fast he looked like he might pop. "I thought we agreed that we didn't want to rush into anything physical?" he squeaked. 

"No! I mean, yes! We did! I mean…" he trailed off and gestured, pointing at the two of them and the bed. “Ngk,” was all that came out. Words failed them. Or they failed at words. 

It confused Aziraphale further. "We've slept together several times now, so if you don't mean coitus—" 

"Coitus! Bloody hell who calls it that? No I'm not talking about… anyway we… did you want to…" they growled. "Kissing! Is a thing. That we do now, yes?"

"Yes?"

"And so now we're…" 

"Dating?" 

"No!" Crowley blinked. "Wait, you think we're dating? Like, a couple?"

Aziraphale deflated. "Oh, I'm sorry I shouldn't have… of course you wouldn't want to—" 

Crowley cut him off. "Don't start with that! It's not— We hadn’t talked about it. But yes, if you want to be, I want to be."

Aziraphale searched their face, looking for something and growing more and more joyful as he found it. "You mean it? You want to be a couple? Be boyfriends?" 

Crowley screwed up their face, "Not really much of a boyfriend, me. Being like this."

"Nonsense! I won't call you that if you don't like it, but you're perfect just the way you are. My beau." He wiggled in excitement.

Crowley mocked, "Beau." 

"Beau-friend?" 

They made a noncommittal noise, unwilling to admit they liked that one, as silly as it was. "Back to the point, I don't know how to… I've never had a boyfriend overnight."

"Ah! I see. Well seeing as how we are both very tired, I think we should get ready for bed, then go to sleep."

"Oh. Right. Good. Okay." They relaxed, the nerves placated, but touched with a smidgen of disappointment. 

Aziraphale excused himself to the bathroom, and came back wearing pajamas, a full set of his tartan. They should have expected that. He was such a dork. They left to brush their teeth and other nightly ablutions, and ended up staring at the small bag of other toiletries on the sink, leather and worn. It smelled like Aziraphale, all his perfumes. They hope it stayed there, even when he left. 

They should make more spaces for him. Let him fill them in. Let him blend them together. 

When they returned Aziraphale was already in bed, smiling softly at them as they approached. They got in, heart aflutter, and tried to get comfortable. Once they settled, Aziraphale leaned over, gave them a kiss on the forehead, and said "Goodnight, my dear."

* * *

Breakfast in bed with their new boyfriend was a lot sexier than they expected. Maybe it was getting to wake up together, limbs intertwined and slowly rising from the haze of sleep. Maybe it was the glances and blushes as they had gotten ready, cooking in Crowley's tiny kitchenette. Maybe it was due to the noises their fussy boyfriend made when he bit into his toast, which he held with his pinky up like it was priceless porcelain. Crowley didn't know, but they had never been hungrier for breakfast. Aziraphale made buttered bread seem like a luxury, like Crowley should smear butter on themselves so that he might lick it off. Fuck, he wanted to be licked like that.

Thankfully Aziraphale sat by himself at the desk, leaving Crowley on the bed to stare and snicker when he cut a slice of tomato with his fork and knife, gathering up a perfect bite of it with scrambled eggs and bacon. Prissy foodie. It may have been a full English breakfast, but he'd made it with a microwave and toaster. Which was both impressive and hilarious, considering the succulent attention given to a nuked egg.

They spent so long mooning they had to rush to finish their own food once Aziraphale had finished his. 

"Are you sure it'll be alright if I go? You'll be safe?" he asked, fussing around the room cleaning up. 

"Yeah. 'Course. I'm going to stay here, keep the door locked, and call if I need you. Phone's in my pocket so you'll know where I am." Crowley patted it in their back pocket, then realized they were encouraging him to look at their bum when he glanced at it and then quickly away. "Go enjoy your day off work with your kids." 

"Can I have a kiss goodbye?" he asked, fluttering his lashes. 

With a grin, Crowley obliged. It was a much more involved kiss than a usual greeting, and it was magnificent. He left with his joy beaming out to the world, and Crowley felt his absence like a return to darkness. 

They sighed. Might as well get cleaned up. They were pleased to see Aziraphale's leather case still on the sink and grinned at it as they brushed their teeth. They opened the medicine cabinet to get out their meds and stopped dead. Aziraphale had been in here when they were hung over. Was their secret out? There was the prescription bottle, front and center. 

But what were the chances that he knew what spironolactone was? 

He had two trans kids. The chances were high. 

"Fuck."

Maybe he hadn't noticed. They should probably pray that he had, that he knew, that he didn't mind, but what was the point in that? Might as well ask to win the lottery and be named a Duke, if they were going to ask for the impossible. Aziraphale was fine with trans people, supportive of them, but that didn't mean he'd like a freak. Their stomach sank. What if Aziraphale was only interested in dating because he thought they were a trans woman? That was probably it. They shook their head. Didn’t matter, he’d dump them when it came out. Hadn’t yet. Just had to put it off. 

They tucked their meds into the top drawer of their nightstand, a much better hiding spot. 

The rest of their day passed uneventfully. Aziraphale texted, updating them on what he was doing and how his family was. It was nice. Aziraphale's little blue pin stayed firmly in the same place all day, at his home. 

Not that Crowley checked it often. They could live a single day on their own. They might be infatuated but they weren't pathetic. 

(They were, in fact, pathetic. They checked that dot at least once an hour.)

That night was easier, no awkward conversations. They had a goodnight kiss, and got to cuddle up, hugging his thick, warm body. They slept like a baby wrapped around such softness. 

Beginner’s martial arts class went well. It focused on the practical, about being fast, subtle, and effective. They had gotten the hang of most of the basics and could hold their own against several of their classmates at this point. Tutoring with Aziraphale had settled into something else, now that Crowley had their basic competencies down. They practiced the opposite of what they learned in class— showy moves, stunts, and flashy swordplay meant to be seen and dazzle. Crowley loved it. The showmanship and presentation aspects were exactly what they excelled at as a model, and it felt very productive for their career. Plus, it evoked childhood memories of playing pirates or learning how to do cartwheels. It felt like that kind of free-spirited fun, except with the one person they most wanted to spend time with. 

If it left them breathless and aching in their chest, it was surely from the exertion, or the rising desire to snog him senseless on the filthy floor. Well, maybe not, but since Crowley didn't know what to call the feeling he got from Aziraphale, the boiling golden light that filled their body, they left it at ‘lust.’ And it was best to avoid any lust, lest they think to try any kind of sexual stuff and lose what they had too soon. 

The next week they had Aziraphale bring all his usual clothes to their tailor. Crowley showed the tailor his work out suit, and all the places it had ripped before, and had him reinforce those seams on Aziraphale’s wardrobe. 

“Is this really necessary? They’re already such lovely clothes I owe you for. I wouldn’t want to put you out,” Aziraphale whispered while the tailor was writing down notes.

“Yes, it’s necessary. I want you at your best, if something happens. I don’t want you to hesitate because you’re worried about tearing something. You’ve said yourself your clothes can be a handicap. Well I want to reduce that handicap and let you feel reassured that your garments will be safe. I know how much you cherish your clothing. I’ve seen what care you take of it. And you don’t own me anything. This has all been purely self-interest on my part.”

Aziraphale blushed, but offered no further resistance. When they got home, Aziraphale brought the subject back up, thanking them and talking about how much they appreciated the clothes, just disgustingly demonstrative stuff. Crowley managed to steer the conversation back to the practical, and they spent a while talking about improvised weapons. 

“Oh, you’re going to love this,” Crowley said, and fished out their Louboutin heels. “Feel the sole on this,” and handed them to Aziraphale. 

“Oh my. Is that?” he tapped the shoe on the floor, where it made a satisfying click-click. Louboutin’s were some of Crowley’s favorite shoes not only because they were great black shoes with a signature red undersides flashing as they moved, but because they were very well made. “These are metal!” Aziraphale exclaimed. 

“Yup!” Crowley grinned and took them back. “The spike’s a solid steel heel. Quality stuff.”

“Good Lord, you could kill a man with that.”

“Really?”

Aziraphale then went on to explain how to kick someone with those shoes on in such a way that it would kill them, demonstrating a little with their gestures. As if that was not the hottest thing he’d done in days, their soft, strong  _ boyfriend _ , as if it was not affecting Crowley at all. And then he had Crowley put them on and demonstrated several ways to subdue, but not maim, an attacker with them, having Crowley practice with him for a moment. He held their leg up at the calf, shifting it in a held kick, talking about angles or something. Crowley wasn’t sure, overly focused on the warmth of his hands as they ran along their skin. 

That night their dreams were especially provocative, and when they woke up, they’d wedged one of Aziraphale’s thighs between their legs. 

Weeks passed, several months of them, and they fell into a new routine. Kisses in the morning and kisses at night. Lunches out, where they bickered until their food arrived, and Crowley tried to keep it together as Aziraphale made a spectacle of himself enjoying it. If Crowley was perhaps spending too much money on treating him to fine meals, that was their prerogative. Sometimes when they walked to Crowley’s various appointments they held hands, and it felt like flying. Classes were going well and they were learning a lot, all their physical, vocal and acting skill building going productively. Aziraphale's private tutoring was unbearably hot and sexy. Anathema started making smug faces and whispering to Newt sometimes when she caught Aziraphale doting on them. Nowadays less so, as the whole of Dior was in a tizzy, frantic work being done for the upcoming Fashion Week.

An envelope showed up at the door once a week, randomly, and Crowley threw them away without looking. 

Then it came twice. The second time there had been a knock, but they'd been in the bathroom and hadn't seen who it was. Unfortunately. This second envelope was full, a thick letter inside, and the label was different, handwritten.

Personal.

_ Should I open it? _ they asked themselves. They tapped it on their desk, thinking hard.  _ No. I don't care what he wants to say. He probably just wants to scare me. What if it's just blank paper to conceal a razor blade or something? _ They threw it away like they had all the rest.  _ Fucking stalker. _

The next day was Saturday, and so they said goodbye for the day to Aziraphale, giving him a long kiss before he left to spend time with his family, as usual. 

Crowley spent it moping and streaming TV, as usual.

Right before dusk there was a knock at the door. 

Crowley paused their show, confused.  _ Who could that be? _ Another knock. 

They got up to check the peephole. It was a tall man in a trenchcoat but he wasn't facing the door at the moment. His hair was dirty blonde and familiar… he turned around and Crowley's eyes flew open in recognition and fear.

_ Oh, fuck. Shit. It's Hastur! Fucking shit fuck. _

They double checked the locks with a glance, all in place, and backed away as fast and quiet as they could. They grabbed their phone from the bed and retreated to the bathroom doorway, ready to barricade themselves in if they had to, and called Aziraphale. 

"Hello, my dear. How is—"

"Aziraphale, emergency!" they hissed in a loud whisper. "Hastur is here! He's here. He's found me and is going to try and take me again. He's at my house!"

"I'll be right there. Are you safely inside?"

"Yes, all the locks are locked. But he's here, he's in the hall. Fuck I should have guessed. Fuck. He's going to take me. He's going to drag me back to that hell— "

"You think he would try to break in?" Aziraphale interrupted. 

"I don't know. He might. He could. He's kicked down my doors before, but that's why I got all those locks in the first place. I should have known it was him. I should have guessed."

"I'm on my way. I promise I'll be there as soon as I can. Is your phone charged?"

They checked. "37%" 

"Good enough. I'm going to hang up to save your battery, unless you want me to stay on the line. If he tries to break in call 999 and hide your phone on your person. I'll track you, even if he takes you, I will track you and take you back. He will not have you. You hear me?"

"Yes. Yes. Okay." They hung up, pulling up their tracking app, already seeing the reassuring movement of Aziraphale's blue dot heading there. Maybe that golden feeling was gratitude? They certainly felt profoundly grateful for Aziraphale right now. 

Crowley flinched as another booming knock echoed in their little flat. 

* * *

Aziraphale sped. He never broke the law, any law, but for Crowley, he sped. He made it to their flat in record time, but he'd been so far out, it still took a while. 

Crowley's door looked normal as he ran up, and was locked when he tried it. He checked the tracker, showing Crowley still in their flat, and called them. 

"Aziraphale, is that you?" they whispered over the phone, forgoing the usual greetings. 

"Yes, I'm here. Are you alright?"

"Fine. Fine." They hung up. Locks clicked and rattled as they were unbolted and the door opened. Standing there was Crowley, still in their pajamas, shaking like a leaf. Aziraphale grabbed them, hugging him for dear life, smashing their head into his shoulder. 

"Oh my dear, I'm so glad. You're safe now. You're safe," he said, half to himself. He had been terrified. He didn't know what he'd do if something had happened. Crowley meant as much to him as any of his family, he had realized as he rushed here. He couldn't lose them. 

He loved them. 

Crowley sniffed, hard, and clutched at him, returning the desperate energy of Aziraphale's embrace. 

"There, there, dear heart."Aziraphale rubbed soothing circles on their back until they released him, drawing back. He took that as an opportunity to finish entering, locking the door behind him. "Did anything else happen while I was en route?"

Crowley shook their head. "A few more knocks. He gave up and left. Not that long ago." They paced back and forth, filling the little floor space of the room. Aziraphale tried to project calming energy, and sat on the bed. "I should have guessed. They said the guy was tall. Why didn't I guess?"

"I take it you know this Hastur, then?" 

Crowley swiveled to stare at him, their mouth screwed up. Where the sudden reluctance was coming from, he had no idea. "Yeah," they said eventually. They tugged at the hem of their tee. "He's my father." 

"Your…" Aziraphale caught himself before he blurted out all the questions flitting through his mind. They had only talked briefly about their parents, and mostly in disparaging terms. He had known they had run away, but… well if just showing up inspired that much terror, then, "I'm glad you ran away from him, if he's that dangerous." 

Crowley sat down beside him on their bed, drawing their knees up to hug them. "He's not… he's not that bad."

"No? Only bad enough that he might break down a door to abduct someone?"

"Er." 

Aziraphale sighed. "You said he'd done it before?"

"Y- yeah. I locked myself in my room after… an argument. I don't know which one did the actual breaking, but they kicked it in. Took a lot of force to do. And once before that, in a bathroom at a store. I'd been in there too long and he just kicked the lock off." 

"Good Lord." 

"Mmm."

"So he would hurt you?" 

"No! No, not really. Never hit me or anything."

"There are a lot of ways to hurt someone without hitting them."

Crowley merely grunted. Aziraphale was glad they were at least acknowledging that point. 

"Why do you think he's coming to abduct you? Was he the man that attacked you?" 

"He's done it before. Back when I ran away. I, uh. Well, the first time I wasn't successful and he caught me. Dragged me back. Locked me up. Ligur got me the second. "

"How many times  _ did  _ you run away?" 

"Just the three. Third time's the charm and all." They chuckled weakly. 

"Your parents physically assaulted you when they took you?" 

"It's not like they beat me up or anything. They just…" Crowley pantomimed someone pulling them by the hair and clothes. "Made me. Wouldn’t surprise me that they didn’t want me to fight back this time."

Aziraphale grimaced. "They dragged you by your hair to force you places you didn't want to go." Aziraphale had seen people with this kind of trauma before. Brian had been abused by his parents before he ran away, but he hadn't heard about anything quite that horrifying. Abuse wasn't just beatings, it was about control and damage, and the best damage an abuser could do was the kind no one else could see. So that’s what they usually stuck to. Crowley’s parents must have been desperate to resort to the physical. "That's violence, Crowley. It’s assault."

"Well… when you put it that way…" Crowley wiggled their head, conceding. 

"I'm sorry they treated you like that. You didn't deserve it."

"I was a pain though. I made everything into a big ordeal and they would just get sick of it." 

Aziraphale was silent for a long moment, unsure of how to say this. "I believe that's what they told you. I'm not sure that it is true. Even if it was, you don't deserve to be treated like that."

Crowley grunted, then gave a grudging nod. Aziraphale scooted closer to wrap his arms around them, and they leaned into it, resting their head on his shoulder.

"I gotta move," Crowley mumbled.

"Oh, pardon me." Aziraphale retreated, and Crowley frowned at him. 

"No, come back here. I liked that. I meant move out of the flat. Been here long enough. I should move out. Somewhere safer." 

Aziraphale hummed. All he wanted was Crowley safe and happy. They didn’t seem to be either here, so he could support this. He pulled them down so they could lay together, with Aziraphale as the big spoon. He buried his nose in Crowley’s curls, breathed in the strawberry shampoo smell. Felt their thinner arms, the long fingers of their hands intertwining with his own. Crowley let out a long breath and tangled their ankles together, bare feet smooth against one another. 

Aziraphale spoke softly, "I'll let the constable know what happened. Hopefully he'll find evidence that it was Hastur who attacked you and he'll be arrested." 

"Still should move. Ligur might just pick up where he left off. Maybe I should go to a motel again for a while. Though that’s a lot of effort and Fashion Week starts in five days. I’m already so busy..." 

"We will do whatever you need to feel safe.” That was the truth. Aziraphale wasn’t going to let some abusive man hurt someone he loved. “You have me. I'm here."

* * *

Aziraphale underestimated London Fashion Week. 

The next morning, when Aziraphale called to update the constable about Hastur he delivered bad news — he was being transferred to a small village out of town, but assured him that the new constable assigned to the case would continue with the utmost discretion, and would follow up with the new lead. It was rather unfortunate; Nicholas Angel was one of the best men on the force. It would be hard for anyone to replace him, and Aziraphale feared this meant that the case would stall out, even with new evidence and a strong suspect. He didn’t convey his worries to Crowley, but he did commit to being the best bodyguard he could be. No one would be harming his beloved. No one. 

Since their father’s appearance, Crowley was booked solid every day in preparation for the upcoming Fashion Week, and so Aziraphale spent nearly all his time guarding them. Crowley had told him it was one of four major fashion expos worldwide, and one of the largest industry events in the world, but he still hadn’t imagined the amount of work that went into it, even for a model who just had to present the hard work of all the designers. The days leading up to London Fashion Week were filled with fittings, adjustments and second fittings, meetings with designers, meetings with agents, skin treatments, spa treatments, waxing appointments, etc. Then they were booked back-to-back at the event itself for seven straight days, no time off and some 12 hour days in there. Aziraphale was concerned about them having enough time to eat in all of it, which when he brought up Crowley had laughed and said “Models don’t need to eat.”

That earned them a stern lecture, which they laughed through, but eventually Crowley managed to convince him that it was an industry joke. There was a grain of truth to it, but the good bosses remembered that if models didn’t eat they’d pass out, and that was a bad look for any brand. It might be nothing but a protein shake in hair and makeup, but they’d make sure to get something at least one a day. Aziraphale made a mental note to carry many snacks. They might be terrible at taking care of their health, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to let them. He was going to care for his troublesome person whether they liked it or not. 

Friday arrived, the first day of London’s Fashion Week. Crowley was walking for the main Dior branch, and all the other members of Ko’ushichan Dior were there to help out. They had acquired a staff pass for Aziraphale to serve as a laborer, which he was extremely grateful for, not only because it allowed him to keep a closer eye on Crowley but because he got to be busy while doing so, moving equipment and racks of clothing from their vans to their backstage areas and other similar tasks. These shows were so much larger than the events they’d been to before, with hundreds of people backstage prepping for a single show. And there was a show every hour! For the entire week!

He hadn’t expected how hostile the other models were going to be to Crowley, either. Crowley had explained how important being at the front or end of a show was, that the coveted position was highly sought-after when they’d been given the position headlining in K.U.D.’s runway shows. Dior’s women’s line’s headliners, Miss Carmine Zugibar and Mister Chalky, were incredibly rude from the moment they met. 

“It’s the upstart new thing. Pretty little thing here to play dress up. Too bad you’ll always be in the second cousin house,” Carmine said. “Not good enough for the main branch, a strange little thing like you.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. How dare she!? Crowley was so much more stunning than she was in her slinky red leathers. They couldn’t compare, even if Miss Carmine did ooze feminine and sexy. Crowley was perfect, with their gold eyes and long neck and elegant fingers. They were more sexy in an understated way. 

“I want to soil her,” Chalky said, their unnervingly pale blue eyes staring. 

“That’s very kind. What high praise,” Crowley said sarcastically. “I’m pleased to meet you as well. Always good to get an up-close with the bottle redheads before I replace them.”

Carmine sneered. Aziraphale was pleased, but tried not to show it. 

Raven, one of the headliners of the male line, laughed. “Feisty! Meow! You two gonna wrestle? I’d get a pudding pit and you can ruin it for fun with your little tiff. I’ll go half-and-half in the profits from tickets”

Chalky chuckled, “I’d pay to see that. So wasteful and filthy.”

The two redheads looked sour and glared all around, before wardrobe arrived and absconded with half of them, ending the argument. They went about their business, Crowley going to hair and makeup first. Aziraphale ended up getting drafted to decorate the stage, which had long shimmery fabric laid out around it’s edges. It did mean that for the very first time, he got to stand in the back of the guest space and see Crowley  _ walk  _ a catwalk. 

The Dior show was almost all clothes Aziraphale could see Crowley looking amazing in, since it was nearly an all-black collection. Carmine didn’t look any fancier than the several who came after her, Aziraphale noted with scorn. Lots of lace and satin at first, but it got more bright and interesting towards the end, where Crowley was, number sixty or so in the line up. Aziraphale had quite a number of previous models to compare them to when they finally appeared on stage. They stepped out, draped in a floor-length gown that looked translucent yet metallic. It wrapped around their body like they were gilded in silver, changing to pewter on the bottom. Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. When the cloth moved it flowed, soft and fluid, like they were melting it and it dripped from them. They glided, a smooth slink that only highlighted the fabric’s unique properties, and he was in awe. Crowley never moved like that, normally, and yet knew exactly how to best show off the garment. 

They were _ so good  _ at what they did. It was a very different ambiance than most of the other models, who looked slightly pissed and stomped up and down the catwalk. Crowley looked mysterious, full of secrets and on the edge of a laugh about them behind their veil.

He wanted to run his hands over that fabric, over Crowley’s body in that fabric, to feel the velvet covering all the hard muscle and bone of them. The contrast would be so delightful, so tantalizing. To slide it off and reveal the softer skin beneath it. He longed to kiss those thighs, bury his face… 

Needless to say, Aziraphale waited before going backstage, so that once he had calmed down enough to be seen he didn’t rile himself back up watching Crowley change. He made sure they had a snack before running off to another appointment. He also noted with pride that Chalky, the final headliner, had worn an actual house as a garment. Who cared if you were headlining if your outfit was that stupid? 

They had to come back a few hours later for the second runway with Dior, which they ran late for. Aziraphale didn’t realize that each house would put out a couture AND a ready-to-wear line and release them both at Fashion Week. It was so much. So many costume changes, so many elaborate makeups, so much preparation and going from tent to tent. It was all  _ so busy _ , and _ so much work _ in a crush of other bodies pressing around to get it all done.  _ Hundreds  _ at each backstage and  _ thousands  _ of guests overseeing it all, with cameras constantly snapping pictures and demanding everyone be on their best at all times. Aziraphale was wearing his nicest suits but even he felt self-conscious with all the attention, and none of it was focused on him.

The ready-to-wear catwalk was just as interesting, if very different from the couture one. Chalky opened this time, in a weird pair of coveralls that looked like they’d had ink dribbled and splashed on them. He supposed a “disgusting, filthy human” look certainly suited them. Crowley was again towards the end of the parade, and this time bobbed and stomped with brisk energy, so much different, so much peppier than before. Their face was mostly obscured by a big hat all the models had on, and they wore a bulky red and black coat, cinched at the waist, that looked like it was made out of fabric that was meant to look like and move like oversized fur, yet was tartan patterned. 

And that only made him picture Crowley wearing  _ his  _ tartan. A set of tartan pajamas, like he’d gotten made for his kids, perhaps? Or tartan underwear, hidden under their clothes so that it was against their body even when they were apart. Touching and claiming them in their most intimate places. Cupping them while they were in public, until he could replace it with his hands— 

Aziraphale shook that highly inappropriate thought from his mind, backing up to the tamer pajama ones. He still had most of a bolt of his specially ordered tartan fabric. Maybe he should have some pajamas commissioned, so his colors would keep him warm at night. Perhaps that was too presumptuous? Crowley had said they had made their own clothes before. And probably had very specific opinions about what they would and wouldn’t wear. Maybe he should just offer them use of the bolt? They’d been dating/pretending to date for half a year. Was that too fast? They’d only been officially dating for about half that time. 

It was still the longest relationship Aziraphale had ever had. Most of his amorous pursuits ended… abruptly. He’d had lots of crushes when he was young and finding his way in the world, and quite a few boyfriends/lovers, but they had all been short lived relationships, ending the minute Aziraphale asked for something they weren’t interested in. When Aziraphale got too clingy or boring. He really didn’t want that to happen with Crowley.

That fear battled with how badly he wanted to see them wearing it. See them displaying to everyone proof that they were part of his family. Especially all the people here, looking at them while they dressed and touching them and pushing and pulling them about. Ordering his Crowley here and there. He most wanted some proof that Crowley was his in places like this, though he liked the idea of marking them in most situations. 

By the end of the day they were exhausted, having been at the crowded and busy event since nine in the morning, and only arriving at Crowley’s flat at nearly 10 at night. Crowley immediately collapsed on their bed, groaning and slowly wiggling out of their shoes and clothes. Aziraphale turned his back to it, body heating in a pleasant but unwelcome way, terribly interested in making Crowley squirm on his own. Instead, he made dinner for them, just some sandwiches and a can of veg heated up, kissed them goodbye, and headed off to The Commodore for his second job. 

The next day was even worse. Crowley was walking for two designers, each having both a couture and ready to wear shows and was going to be there for more than the full 12 hours the event was running. Aziraphale got drafted moving chairs and unloading cars while Crowley was backstage, smaller shows than Dior's had been but still massive undertakings. He only got to sneak into the standing room to watch three of them, equally as impressed by Crowley's versatility as before. One designer was so light and joyful, Aziraphale enjoyed seeing Crowley wear those clothes, since they normally wouldn't. The couture look was even frilly and white, flowing behind them like wings, the opposite of their usual choices. 

He texted with all of his kids as much as he could between tasks, since it was Saturday and normally their day to see each other. Before he'd been assigned to Crowley he'd worked Saturdays, so the kids were familiar with the texting time. Bless Arthur and Deidre for their help this week. Crowley seemed to be feeling guilty, apologizing for keeping him away from his family when he saw, but Aziraphale shushed him. 

It was hard not to say that he thought of Crowley as family too, now, but he managed. They had enough on their plate at the moment without Aziraphale dropping potentially unwanted clinginess on as well. They had made their boundaries very clear, and Aziraphale was going to do his utmost to stay away from them, or else risk driving off someone they cared deeply about. 

That night Aziraphale was nearly falling asleep at their post at The Commodore. Jesse, bless her soul, covered for him so he could get a power nap in before driving back to Crowley's flat to sleep. He had his own set of keys now, so he could let himself in without waking the poor, overworked dear. It felt so good to crawl into bed, wrap his arms around them, lay his head on their shoulder. Crowley mumbled something and cuddled up into him, pressing their bum into his hip, eliciting a reaction from below the waist which he studiously ignored, so tired he easily dropped off to sleep.

Sunday they didn't have to be there until 10 in the morning, but Crowley had booked two more catwalks. One was a jewelry designer, the same one who had hired them for the Couture London Jewelry Exchange. Aziraphale hadn't gotten to see them then, but this time he managed to at least see them backstage, though not walking. He stood behind them while they sat, waiting, holding their hand over their shoulder. They looked lovely dripping with gold, like royalty. Or a goddess. Something worthy of worship, that was for sure. 

_ Oh, how I want to worship them. With my hands, or my mouth. With anything, really. _

Amar was also there, and again tried to offer Aziraphale a job with her security company, claiming Shadwell didn't deserve his loyalty and that he was too fine a man to be working with someone as dodgy as the Sergeant. He politely took her card, but knew he wouldn't even look at it later. He wouldn't do anything to take himself away from his job guarding Crowley, already dreading the day they no longer needed a bodyguard. 

Right after that catwalk, Crowley got a frantic call from Madame Tracy, saying one of her other models was a no show and would Crowley fill in. They'd had to run, physically run, across the whole event to arrive breathless at a crying designer whose staff took over, bustling and hustling and quickly had Crowley lining up to walk in less than ten minutes. Their clothes didn't quite fit right, but they looked marvelous and moved a lot to try to hide it, to the designers great relief. She only had about 20 looks in her collection, on one of the smaller stages. Afterwards, she kissed Crowley and thanked them for filling in, as they were the closest to the original models measurements. 

After all that, Crowley had another show to rush off to. Both of them forgot meals and were starving by the time they finished, late at night again. It had been a massive failure on his part, and he felt guilty for not taking good care of them. 

"Kebab. This calls for kebab," said Crowley, slouched in the passenger’s seat of the company cab, like gravity was doubling as the night went on. "Too tired to walk there. So tired." 

Aziraphale quickly agreed, happy they could easily resolve this for them. He handed them his phone and had them order from the delivery service he'd used before. Their food arrived only 10 minutes after they did, and for once, Aziraphale was too tired to sit at the desk and eat properly. They both sprawled on the bed, talking and eating, occasionally feeding each other chips while blushing. It raised his heart rate whenever Crowley licked the salt from their fingertips, wanting to do that himself. Aziraphale kissed them goodnight when they finished eating and headed back out to work again. 

As soon as he arrived he checked with the other door supervisors, and Leslie offered to cover his normal Monday night shift. If he didn't get some real rest soon he would be utterly useless. 

Fashion week wasn't even half over, yet.    
  


* * *

Crowley got out the garment bag labeled “Monday” from the stack. They had pre-planned their wardrobe choices for the entirety of Fashion Week based on what designers they were working for that day. Still damp from their shower and bleary, they got dressed and ready. Aziraphale emerged from the bathroom fully dressed and laced up, a habit that Crowley appreciated. They were getting too worn out to notice when he was in the room, and several times they had forgotten and stripped in front of him, to later realize and then spend the next hour flushed and fluttery. It was hard when they spent all day changing clothes in front of strangers without caring, then suddenly felt the air grow hot and heavy when disrobing at home. 

Today’s agenda: they were walking for Banshee Row and had a schmoozing afterwards followed by a candid photo session. It was the final fully booked day until the last day of Fashion Week, and they were looking forward to getting more rest. Left for Fashion Week: They were walking in two more designer’s catwalks, one a shoe designer and one an Irish medium-sized design house, pinch-hitting another designer’s show they were unfamiliar with after that, which required two fittings before the walk itself, had two photoshoots, an interview with Vogue about K.U.D. with Anathema, and both catwalks for K.U.D. 

It was their busiest, most booked Fashion Week ever. Dior had opened doors, and Madame Tracy had skillfully used that to leverage more go-sees, which Crowley had secured as gigs. 

It was terrific. 

Just… terrifying and yet fantastic. So much work, so much prominence. They’d already made enemies of several well-established-but-threatened models. They’d even had several casual inquiries about future work by big-name designers, which they’d given Polaroids of themselves with their contact info and Agent’s info printed on the back. It was a resounding, smashing, terrific success. 

Getting to spend it all with their boyfriend was the cherry on top. He had practically been drooling over them in public, hiding it less and less successfully the longer they were together, and it made them feel even more confident and sexy. He doted on them, so devoted to making sure they ate and drank and rested enough, even though he was working himself to exhaustion. It was… it was… Crowley didn’t know what it was. Unprecedented and appreciated, that was for sure. Made them feel that bubbling heat, like they were incandescent because they’d been handed a water bottle with a peck to the cheek. Whatever  _ that  _ feeling was, that’s what it was like. It was addictive and joyful and exciting and terrifying and nerve-wracking. 

Aziraphale would kiss their hand, gentle presses of his lips to their knuckles while they were in makeup, so as not to mess it up, and whisper “good luck” or “break a leg” before every show, and Crowley used that feeling, whatever it was, letting it beam from him. Which was working for them, if the professional attention they were getting was any indication. 

Today was no exception, whooshing by in a blur of activity until it was just them, alone in the cab on the way home and Crowley could finally turn ‘off,’ stop pretending to be perfect and put together. Let themselves sprawl awkwardly and groan about how much their feet hurt from wearing shoes a size too small on today’s catwalk. 

“Can’t they just order the right size of shoe?” Aziraphale said.

“No. They’re custom designs that haven’t gone into production yet. They are often made before models are even hired. They just make the common sizes, and if it’s not your size, too bad, squeeze it in and make it look good.” Crowley stretched his feet, wiggling their toes. “Which is murder on your toes.” 

Aziraphale hummed, watching the road as he drove. “I could give you a footrub when we get home?”

Their heart thumped hard against their ribs.  _ When we get home.  _ They loved how that sounded, and lost themselves in that before they registered their boyfriend’s offer. Then they were picturing it— telling Aziraphale to get on his knees in front of their throne, his hazel eyes looking up through his lashes, pulling and kneading the tension out of them, pressing kisses to their arch, their ankles as he worked, going until Crowley was relaxed and moaning in pleasure. Fuck, they wanted that. They had earned that, working as hard as they were. 

“Naahh,” they said. Their ability to deny their dangerous lusts was waning, but they managed. “What do you fancy for dinner?”

“Whatever you'd like it's fine.”

“Let’s get something nice. My treat, your choice. We’ve earned it, working as hard as we have.”

“Oh… very well. We did make it through the very busy weekend.”

“Cheers to that!”

Sushi was proposed, picked up, and brought home. Aziraphale ate at the desk, as he did, and Crowley resolved to get a place with a dining room table, so they could sit across from him and really get to enjoy those reactions at home. And a kitchen, so Aziraphale could bake in it. 

Next week. These were thoughts for next week, when they were done with Fashion Week and had room to breathe. Aziraphale finished eating, moaning enough into the last bite that it was clear he’d saved the best for last. He lingered a moment, as he always did, as if to thank the meal for being as enjoyable as it was, and cleaned up. 

Crowley kissed him on the cheek. “Be safe. See you in the morning.”

“Oh! Oh silly me. I forgot to mention; I got tonight off.” Aziraphale blushed. “I could use the rest, to be honest.”

“Good. Yeah. Fashion Week’s a lot.”

“Indeed.”

Crowley finished their dinner and Aziraphale bustled in to clear away the containers. They smiled at one another as they coordinated getting ready for bed, taking turns in the bathroom to clean up and change. Finally, they were both in pajamas and cuddled up together, falling into each other's embrace with the ease of familiarity. They fell asleep with their arms around their boyfriend’s middle, cheek pressed to his soft chest, the echo of his slowing heartbeat in their ear. 

When they awoke, it was with confusion and annoyance. It was still the middle of the night, dark and quiet except for the sounds of Aziraphale breathing in his sleep. It took a moment for their foggy brain to clear up enough for them to realize what had woken them.

Their elbow was sticky. They were still hugging Aziraphale, though it was all on bare skin, as his shirt was rucked up. When they tried to pull back they had to peel their arm off of the skin of Aziraphale's lower stomach. He grimaced at the tugging and stirred. 

"What is...?" Crowley mumbled, squinting at their arm in the dark. Aziraphale also groaned, blinking and stirring. They sat up to poke at the moisture, a tacky, musky smelling smear, rapidly drying in the air. "Where did you come from?" 

Aziraphale looked at him, looked down at himself, gasped, and his hands flew to cover his lower midsection. Even in the dark room, Crowley could see him turning pink, then red, then purple with mortification as he scrambled to sit up and extract himself from the bedding. 

They glanced down, where he covered his pajama bottoms with one hand, on the front, where they were dark with moisture. 

"Oh." Their sleep addled, idiotic mouth blurted out, "it's cum." 

Aziraphale flinched with a whimper, biting his lip. "I am so,  _ so sorry _ . This is… this is inexcusable." 

Only then did the situation really register in their half-awake brain. That Crowley had just  _ run their finger  _ through _ Aziraphale's ejaculate. _ That they had  _ smelled _ it. That Aziraphale's  _ cum _ was currently  _ drying _ on  _ their arm _ . 

"Ah! Ngk!" They garbled, holding their tacky limb stiff and away from themselves, unsure of what to do as they were flooded with embarrassment, burning with it from crown to toes. Aziraphale fled to the bathroom, returning shortly with a warm, wet washcloth. 

He babbled apologies as he gently cleaned Crowley's arm, studiously not making anything approximating eye contact. When he finished he fled back to the bathroom, bringing his suitcase with him. Crowley sat there, stiffly, cum still on the pad of their pointer finger, listening to the shower running as their mind raced, trying to sort out what happened. The burn of embarrassment settled lower, down in their pelvis, banked and smoldered there.

They raised their finger, taking a deep whiff of the musky odor, barely there anymore, and without thinking, put their finger in their mouth, sucking on it down to the knuckles. 

Would it be like this? This bitter flavor? This strange scent? If this was Aziraphale pressing heavy on their tongue, filling their mouth? 

Their hips rocked, seeking sensation.  _ Fuck, I wanna know _ . They dropped their hand, pausing before it could make it's way into their own pants. He must have come in his sleep; there was no way he'd masturbated with Crowley right there. And that was a thought. Crowley had been right there, from morning till night for almost five days straight. He wouldn't have had time to take care of things on his own, would he? A thought which was seized upon and multiplied; Crowley's mind was flooded by images of him, blissed-out from self-pleasure, thrusting into his fist desperately in every conceivable position and location, when the shower turned off. 

Aziraphale emerged shortly, dressed in a pair of trousers and a vest, saw Crowley, and paused in the doorway, wringing his hands. 

"I apologize again, I'm so very sorry—" he started.

"No, 's fine. I don't mind."

Aziraphale paused. "You don't?" 

"Nah." They watched their hand as it smoothed the sheets. "... Kinda liked it."

Aziraphale's face pinched in confusion. "You—" 

Embarrassment turning their stomach and unwilling to elaborate, Crowley changed the subject. "I'm sorry."

"You're— Oh, no, you've done nothing wrong!" He rushed over, joining them on their bed, his fretting forgotten in his rush to reassure. 

"I've been monopolizing your time. I'm sure you'd have liked some time alone."

"No, dear boy, think nothing of the sort! I cherish our time together."

"No, I mean…" their face burned as they forced it out. "Some time to yourself." They glanced at Aziraphale, who didn't seem to get it. They growled. "Time to  _ see _ to yourself?" 

Understanding dawned, followed quickly by mortification. He pulled his fingers, eyes firmly on the ceiling, and said, "You needn't… you needn't concern yourself with that. I, um... I don't." 

"You don't?" Crowley said, now the confused one.

"Ugh. Lord. I…" he huffed, turning away. "I haven't. In a  _ very _ long time, and not often before that. And that's no fault of yours, so please don't feel bad about it. It's fine."

"Well why not?" said Crowley. 

Aziraphale huffed again, with much greater exasperation this time, and snapped, "It's not like I have much privacy! I share my home with four children, and since Warlock arrived I can barely get a moment alone to use the toilet, much less… well, you know." 

"Oh. Right," they said dumbly. That should have been obvious. He'd been living half out of his car before they'd even met, of course he wouldn't have the privacy to masturbate. "If you… if you wanted to, you could." Aziraphale turned back to face them, one eyebrow raised. "Here." 

Narrowing his eyes, he repeated, as if Crowley were an idiot, "Here." 

Those eyes bored into them, but their body was already burning, heated through and through, and it only fueled it now. "Yup. You c-could, uh. I could give you some privacy here, if you’d like. Or, uh, or help?" 

Annoyance faded to shock. "Help." 

"Yeah. I could, you know… Lend a hand when needed." They started twisting the blanket, unable to look at him, see how he was taking that. 

The room was silent. After nearly braiding the bedding together they dared a look. Aziraphale was staring at them with glassy eyes, biting their lip hard, visibly struggling with something internally. 

"Never mind, sorry, sorry, shouldn't have pried. Forget it." They hopped out of bed, slapping their feet on the concrete floor as they rushed to the bathroom, hiding on the other side of the door. 

_ Ugh. Stupid stupid stupid! You're going to ruin this! _ They rubbed their forehead, trying to think of ways to undo what they'd done. Drawing a blank, they settled on playing it cool, acting like nothing had happened. They had a piss, splashed their face with cold water, gathered themselves, summoned all their acting training, and went back to their bed. 

Aziraphale was still sitting there, stunned, and Crowley gave them a nonchalant smile, lifted their covers, and climbed in. They settled, not facing him, and pretended to go to sleep. The bed rustled after a time as Aziraphale got back in it, no part of them touching. 

Relieved, Crowley let out a sigh and tried to go to sleep in earnest, when he broke the silence with a whispered, "You'd like that?" 

Crowley buried their face in their hands, curling up into the fetal position.  _ Bloody hell. Just. Fuck... Might as well.  _

"Yes," he said, muffled by their hands and bedding. "I'd like that."

"...You don't feel like you're being pressured into anything?" 

Crowley threw their head back. "No! For fuck's sake, I'm the one that brought it up!" they said, ringing clear in the quiet night. 

"... It's just that you were very emphatic about not wanting to… to get physical." 

"It's fine." They thought about it often enough, and there were no relationship killing surprises in Aziraphale's pants, they were fairly sure, except— "I've never done it before. I haven't… might not be any good at it." 

Aziraphale laughed, hearty and rich. Crowley rolled over to glare at him, propped up on their elbow. His eyes shone up at them as he laid on his back with nothing but happiness in them, smiling wide. 

"I highly doubt that will be an issue, my dear heart." 

Those words sent a coruscating thrill up their spine, the tingling lingering between their legs. "Yeah?" They raised up to their hands and knees, looking down at him. The mirth on his face morphed into hunger, and he licked his lips. 

" _ Yes _ ." 

His eyes were wide and locked on theirs as the air grew thick and hot around them. 

"Kiss me," Crowley commanded, and he surged up to do exactly that, grabbing them by the arms. His grip tightened as their kiss intensified, thumbs digging almost to the point of pain when Crowley ran their tongue along his bottom lip. 

They broke apart and Aziraphale fell back down to the bed, both breathing heavily. Crowley scooted closer, causing the covers to fall away, exposing him to the waist. 

"Can I?" Crowley said quietly, not even sure what they were asking for. 

Aziraphale sucked his lips and whimpered, vigorously nodding. 

"Show me?" 

He pushed the covers the rest of the way off, the outline of an erection already clearly visible in his tenting trousers. His hands shook as they unbuttoned them, hesitating before pushing them down, pants and all, exposing his prick. 

Crowley had never seen one live, so to speak. Raw and red and just for them. They moved down, settling to straddle his thighs where his clothing was bunched, leaning over it to get a good long look. 

Aziraphale whimpered again, and his cock twitched. They liked that, liked the sense of desperation, that his body was straining for them. His heartbeat was visible, gently throbbing the length of his fat cock, going as fast as Crowley’s was. 

"Show me," they repeated. Aziraphale looked down his body at them, breathing hard. His hand moved, wrapping around himself. 

"Like this?" he said, breathlessly. 

"Yes. Show me how you do it."

He obeyed, covering his eyes with his other hand as he started moving, slowly pulling his shaft. Crowley could feel his thighs tensing underneath them, flexing the thick muscles of them. Like logs, they were so thick and strong. 

Crowley moaned. They were so turned on, so tempted to push down and grind into those sexy thighs, chase their own pleasure. This was, quite literally, the hottest thing that had ever happened to them. Their boyfriend, spread beneath them for whatever they wanted, demonstrating how to do a handjob because they'd told him to. 

"Fuck. Fuck, that's hot," they said.

Aziraphale sped up, moaning, and the tension in his body changed, flexing and releasing rhythmically, as if it was straining to rut up. 

Crowley reached out and Aziraphale stopped the moment they touched him, pulling his hand away to cede control. They petted his cock, gathered it up in their hand, and gave it a few experimental tugs. 

_ It's hard but it's soft. Silky. And it moves different, slides so easy, even without lube _ , they thought. They focused on the angle, finding a comfortable grip and settling into a rhythm. "That feels nice."

"It does," he breathed. His hand fell from his face, fingers left curled by his temple as he looked at Crowley, and his mouth parted, little huffs coming with each exhale. 

Crowley was entranced by the sight. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Look at you.” 

Aziraphale’s breath hitched, and his prick twitched in their hand. Pre leaked from its tip and Crowley was overcome with curiosity. They bent down and licked it away, merely salty on their tongue. Aziraphale gasped. Encouraged, Crowley repeated the action a few times before taking it into his mouth. It felt so big like this, stretching their lips, and they hadn’t even put it very far in. 

“Oh, Oh, Oh, Crowley I’m going to—“ and then he was tugging on their hair, a sensation that felt shockingly fantastic. It went straight between their legs like a shock, making them inhale, to suck hard automatically. “ _ Fuck _ .”

Something hit the back of their mouth. Startled and coughing, they pulled back. It hit them on the cheek and they froze. It was warm and wet and clung to them. Another spurt got them in the chin, but most of it landed across Aziraphale’s belly and clothes.

They liked it. Not the facial per se, but feeling dirty, feeling successful. They felt both of those things in spades as they watched him writhing through his orgasm, tangible proof of having pleased him filling all their senses. 

As he finished he spoke, winded, “I’m sorry, I tried to warn you, but I didn’t expect… well. I’m sorry, I’ve made a mess.” 

“Mmmm.” It cooled so quickly, and wasn’t as pleasant then. Aziraphale’s dick was still hard, though it was a bit smaller. Was that normal? Could they play with it some more?

“I would really love to clean us up, my dear.” 

“Hmmm?” They throbbed, so hard and wet and ready. It was very distracting. 

“I can’t? With you pinning me here?” 

“Ah. Right.” They dismounted, scooting back to their own side of the bed. Aziraphale stood up, holding their pants from falling any farther with one hand, but not pulling them up and soiling them. He shuffled awkwardly to the bathroom like that. Crowley rocked, grinding down on the edge of the bed now that they couldn’t be seen. 

“ _ Ffffuuuuuuck _ .” They wanted to come so badly, they were so close already. The door clicked as it opened and they jumped. Aziraphale returned with the same warm washcloth as before, now back in his pants but sans his soiled vest. He loomed over them, and they wanted nothing more than for him to grab their hair again, hold them down and let them try blowjobs again. Instead, he held them by the chin and gently wiped their face.

“That’s better,” he said with that stupid beaming smile. “Would you like any… help?”

They shook their head. Absolutely not. Their genitals were definitely begging for it, but that would be a huge mistake. They weren’t so horny they’d completely lost their mind. 

“Alright. Would you like to go back to bed? We have another busy day tomorrow.”

“Uhhh, nyeennnnk.” They shut their mouth with an audible click. “Let me just… use the toilet.” Once in the bathroom, safely shielded from his eyes, they dropped to their knees on the floor, right on the other side of the door. They rubbed themselves like a man possessed, furiously chasing their pleasure. They sucked their wrist to stop any stray sounds, hunching forward, eyes closed against the sight of how pathetic they were.

They bit down as they came and the pain of their teeth felt good, in the moment. They slumped over, spent and panting, sense returning. 

“You’re bloody pathetic. Look at you on the floor, like an animal. Filthy. Disgusting. Freak.”

They cleaned up, washing their hands clear of their mess, and crawled back in bed where Aziraphale was already asleep. They had work; London Fashion Week was only half over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to slateblueflowers for beta, Itsthekiks for cheerleading/plotting and for chats by Nenchan, who reminded me that the sexual tension existed and spurred me to rearrange the order of a few scenes to speed that up. 
> 
> [ Chalky’s ready-to-wear look is a real Dior product.](https://www.dior.com/en_us/products/couture-022E03A3154_X9374-oversized-jumpsuit-denim-with-gray-and-black-tie-amp-dior-print) I was doing research for this fic in the beginning and saw this whole line of Pollution clothing and was v pleased. Immediately made the horse people rival models who worked for Dior. Gosh it took forever to get to fashion week so they could debut.
> 
> When writing this chapter I was like, yeah why not, let's use real Dior looks. Crowley’s [couture look is #60 ](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/fall-2019-couture/christian-dior/slideshow/collection#60) and [ the ready-to-wear is #63 ](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/fall-2019-ready-to-wear/christian-dior/slideshow/collection#63)from their Fall 2019 line.
> 
> [This amazing art ](https://selene-yoshi-chan.tumblr.com/post/186521397751/quick-sketch-v)inspired the behind-the-catwalk tenderness in this chapter, specifically Crowley’s look walking for the jewelry designer. And everyone should go look at [Ellie Mars’ adorable art of them sleeping together,](https://ellie-mars.tumblr.com/post/187234954231/ko-fi-instagram) which inspired a lot of tender in-bed moments for me. I just really love her queer Crowley and it’s often what I’m thinking about when I’m writing them.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn’t realize, [London Fashion Week was this week!](https://londonfashionweek.co.uk/) I’m very pleased that it just so happens to coincide with this week’s chapter. Story and IRL collide!

On day five of Fashion Week, Crowley finally finished early. Their fitting, catwalk and other tasks for the day were done all before four o’clock. 

"Actually have time to sit down for dinner tonight," they said as they poured themselves into the car, pooling in the passenger's seat. They wondered what Aziraphale would fancy tonight. Curry? French?

Aziraphale hummed, buckling in, and said, "I do, don't I? I haven't gotten to eat with the family in so long. That would be lovely. Catch up with all the kids."

_ Oh. Right. Back to your real life.  _ They pressed their lips and stayed silent, not wanting to be as petulant and possessive as they felt. He didn't even sleep over on Tuesdays. It was stupid of them to assume. 

"... I am concerned about it though. I don't want to leave you alone." Aziraphale grew solemn. "What if your father returns?" 

"Ugh, that's right. Hastur. Fucking stalker. I've been so busy and tired I almost forgot. Why did he have to escalate his nonsense during fucking fashion week? I'd be staying somewhere else by now if he hadn't."

"I rather think that's the point. To get to you when he knows you'd be busy. When you're less likely to run away." 

"I bet you're bloody right!" Crowley fumed quietly. Hastur had either gotten more conniving over the years, or this was Ligur's idea and he was lurking about as well. Together they had half a brain for something other than their own selfish desires. "It's fine. He didn't break in last time, and I'll call if he shows up or tries anything again. Go be with your family." 

Aziraphale made a pinched face, as if in pain. "I couldn't. You need me right now more than they do. And I already talked to Arthur and Deidre about watching the kids all week. I'm sure they'll be fine without me there." 

He looked so sad, saying that. It was obvious how much he missed his family and wanted to see them. "Well, why don't I just go with you? Then you can know I'm safe and see your family."

Aziraphale lit up like Christmas. "Really? That's not too big a step?" 

"What'd'ya mean?"

"Bringing my lover home to meet the family? That's a lot of big relationship steps in one day." 

"For fuck's sake, Aziraphale! Lover? Really?"

"It's a perfectly functional, gender neutral, and accurate term, especially in light of last night's events."

Crowley's face burned and they groaned. They were not prepared to think about or remember any of that in the light of day, and being busy with work had been crowding out any thoughts and memories. However, if they went back to their flat they would be alone with their boyfriend, sitting in the bed they'd fucked him in, with nothing to distract them from thinking about it. If they met the family first, that should destroy any libidinous urges. That's what kids were for, really. It was a big step in their relationship but they were already stressed as much as they could possibly be with Fashion Week, one more thing wasn’t going to change that much. 

"Let's do it. Dinner with your family." They could always leave if it went arse over tits. Plenty of professional schmoozing this week, what was one more event, albeit personal, where they had to impress a bunch of people? 

"Would you like to go home first? Perhaps change?"

"What? Why?" They looked down at themselves. Nothing was out of place, everything looked perfect and put together. They wore a night-green turtleneck and perfectly tailored tight grey trousers with a plunging pinstripe waistcoat. Black and red loafers with gold detailing, echoed in their buttons and a thick gold snake bracelet highlighted and tied it all in together. A bit basic and business-y of an outfit; not really a dinner date look, but they couldn't honestly care about that. "You're wearing a three piece to dinner, that's even more formal than mine." 

Aziraphale, in his modified grey tux coat, complete with silver paisley waistcoat, sapphire undershirt, and burnished silver buttons, pursed his lips. "I was referring to your comfort level. You typically express a desire to go home and change after a long day." 

"If you think I'm going to have someone's first impression of me be in my slouchfits, you must have gone mad.” Crowley scoffed. “Oh, yes, hello, lovely to meet you, do you know I sleep in this?" 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He put the car into gear and pulled into traffic. "Yes, how foolish. I should have kept in mind your carefully curated facade. My mistake." 

"Exactly." 

"Speaking of my mistakes, we were very careless last night. That was a mistake. I accept the blame for it, wholly, being the more experienced partner, but in the future we should be much more careful when we’re together. I want you to be safe." 

His words stabbed into Crowley's chest, twisting. Thankfully they had sunglasses on, oversized round pantos ones, because their eyes watered.  _ It was a mistake. You were a mistake. You knew it, you disgusting thing. Of course he regretted it. He didn't even get to the weird bits and he still knows it's a mistake to try and be sexual with you.  _ Their lips trembled; they didn't trust them and stayed silent, turning to hide their face and watch the buildings go by. 

"Crowley?" 

There was a brick in their throat. Replying was not an option. 

"Crowley, dear, are you alright?"

They nodded, and hummed an "Mhmm," though it cracked a bit in the middle. Suddenly the car was turning, pulling into a random street and parked. An arm touched their shoulder. 

"Dearest? Please, let me help. Tell me what's wrong."

They turned, saw the pleading eyes, glittering and soft. "I'm sorry. I got… I was tired and should have resisted the temptation more. I'm sorry." 

"Oh no, come here," Aziraphale held his arms out and Crowley succumbed, falling into the embrace, burying their face in his shoulder. "You've done nothing to apologize for." 

It was easier to say this way, to voice their thoughts with their eyes closed and hidden. "But I was a mistake." Their parents had certainly told them so often enough. Hearing it from Aziraphale hurt.

Aziraphale gasped, squeezing them tightly. " _ Never. _ Oh, no,  _ nothing _ of the sort. I owe you an apology, dearest. I should have phrased that better. I’m terribly sorry to have ever given you that impression. You were wonderful.  _ Delightful _ . A curious and generous lover. Being with you is a gift I treasure every day, and our carnal exploration is a blessing and something I am exceedingly excited about continuing. I only meant that we should take better precautions in the future, when we engage in sexual activities, to be as safe and healthy as possible. Make sure we're using appropriate safer sex protocols when we engage in any kind of sexual contact." 

It wasn't them. They didn't fuck it up. They snorted into his shoulder. " _ Carnal exploration _ . And  _ protocols _ ? Really? Is there a checklist you have to have sex?" 

"As a matter of fact I do!" He rubbed their back, patting it a little. "And several handouts and books on the topic, if you think they'd be valuable to you." 

Crowley groaned loudly and pulled back, glaring at him. "You must be joking." 

Aziraphale beamed at them, "I'm afraid not. And no amount of grumpiness and groaning shall dissuade me from discussing this with you. I am the guardian of four at-risk queer teens with a high level of autonomy and independence, and have mentored several others over the years. If you think I have not had  _ multiple _ in-depth conversations with  _ each _ of them on safer sex practices, including relevant literature and devices,  _ despite _ their protests, you are sorely mistaken." 

"Bugger." 

"Perhaps later we might," he said, his eyes glittering mischievously. "Once you have an adequate grasp of how to do so safely."

Crowley laughed. "You monster." 

"Indeed. My wards certainly thought so, at first. But you'd be surprised how far open and honest conversations while pointedly not looking at them can go with a teen. Follow up conversations are usually much better, less awkward." 

"How divine, ye guardian angel of London's queer youth, presiding over sexual health." Crowley settled themselves back in their seat, feeling much better on this footing. Teasing Aziraphale was always a good time.

"Quite." Aziraphale buckled back up and resumed driving. After a long moment he said, "Let me ask you a question. How familiar are you with condoms and their usage? Since your hands are in such good condition I didn't think we'd need them for hand to genital contact, but when you use your mouth, we need a barrier—" 

Even though they knew it wouldn't put him off it, they groaned again, as loud as they could. It was a 20 minute drive to Aziraphale's house, but it felt so much longer to Crowley, as they had to go over Aziraphale's proper (i.e. finicky and fussy) sex protocols nearly the whole way. A few times the conversation veered too close to Crowley nethers for their comfort, but after directly refusing to say anything to a question about them, Aziraphale avoided the topic adroitly for the rest of the discussion, much to their relief. 

When they arrived, staring at a row of houses, towering three stories above them, did they start to get nervous. What if the kids hated them? Aziraphale would never choose them over his family, if it came down to it. 

It was a cool, autumn day, but they nevertheless began to sweat. It was a much fancier house than they’d expected. They had been expecting mass-produced row houses that had barely seen a generation of tenants, but instead they were confronted with an actual Georgian brick townhouse with a small garden out back. It was real Regency Era architecture, rare as that was, though there had been some obvious modern updates. Aziraphale even had his own parking space behind the garden, in the lane. It was so much nicer than they expected it threw them off, and made them suddenly nervous about impressing Aziraphale’s family. They’d grown up with money, dubious gains though they were, and had met plenty of snooty blue-bloods in their lifetime that would never approve of them. 

They entered through the door in the back, right into a bustling, modern kitchen. There was a steaming pot on the brushed steel stove and a lanky teen chopping veggies at marble countertops who was talking to a different, more put together teen loitering about. 

"Aziraphale! We weren't expecting you back yet," said the respectable looking kid. He had a basic style, casual but classy in red and neutrals, and a hairstyle that looked casual, just a bit of curl on the shaggy length, but one that Crowley knew took effort. 

"Adam, since you're not occupied, could you go ask your parents if they mind my having a guest for dinner? Crowley and I had some free time and I thought it might be nice to come by." 

He made a silent gasping face at the room, eyes sparkling. He mouthed “Crowley” before he ran off. 

"Since I expect the answer to be yes, Brian, dear, do you think you can make extra?" 

"Sure, I just got started. Might want to let Warlock know soon though cause she's on mains." Brian was not nearly as put together as Adam was. His hair looked like he hadn't discovered that conditioner existed and his jeans had ragged dirt-stained edges on the bottom where they were too long and he walked on them, and a knee tear that was clearly not put there by design, but by some sort of clumsy accident. It was all topped by a too tight tee, which actually suited him. 

"Right. Come along, Crowley." Aziraphale hustled forward, stepping past a truly massive table in the formal dining room and into a foyer with staircases and a turn of the century lead crystal chandelier, with its original plaster rosette and carved wood paneled walls. Even the tile, pink-veined marble, was old. It all screamed a family that came from money, and this was their inherited home. A family which was at least well-off still, going by the high-end appliances and remodeling.

They went downstairs, to what clearly had once been the servants’ quarters, but with modern updates: turning a sideboard into a kitchen, wall to wall carpeting that had seen better days, and an overstuffed massive couch in front of a modest sized flat screen. Warlock, dressed in all black with a haircut that screamed "I'm growing this out" and glittery silver nail polish, was gingerly moving pieces of meat as if they might explode from the packaging to a cutting board. 

She startled when they arrived. "Aziraphale! And… is that Crowley? Fucking A!" 

"Thanks, I suppose," said Crowley. 

"That's terribly rude, cursing at a guest like that," said Aziraphale. 

"Sorry, no offense. Wow. You look amazing." 

"I do," said Crowley, matter of fact. “That’s my job.”

"I came down to let you know that Crowley and I would be staying for dinner. Can you make extra portions?" 

"Oh cool, really?" Aziraphale nodded. Warlock grinned and continued, "Yeah, sure. Nothing fancy. Grilled chicken breasts. I'll throw a couple extra on. Where'd you get that bracelet?" She pointed at Crowley’s wrist.

"It's designed by Gas Bijoux, you can get them at Marie Claire's. You're lucky you liked that part. It's the cheapest thing I'm wearing. The rest is mostly swag from one job or another." 

She looked star struck by that. It was cute. They winked at her, and she smiled back.

"Well. Don't let us keep you from your work. Where's Pepper and Wensleydale?" 

"In the boys' room, doing math homework." 

"Ah. Then I shan't disturb them. Let's greet the owners, shall we?" 

Back upstairs, they left out a different door from the foyer, into an expansive sitting room. An older gentleman, who clearly worked a middle class desk job for a living, was sitting in an antique armchair. So, their family must have been well off before, but not unreasonably moneyed now. Adam was leaning over the back of a matching couch to talk to a blonde lady who smiled at them as soon as they entered. She gave off the same aura as her son, put together in such a way as to look effortless. 

"Arthur, Deirdre, may I introduce Crowley, my paramour. Crowley, this is Arthur and Deirdre Young. They're Adam's parents and my landlords." 

"Oh, pish posh." Deidre said. "We're practically family by now! You've been living with us for six years." They both stood and Arthur held his hand out. Crowley shook it with a 'lovely to meet you' though Deirdre held her arms out for a hug. Not Crowley's favorite, but not uncommon in the industry, so they gave her one. "Aziraphale's told us so much about you." 

"Has he?" 

"Quite," she gestured for them to sit. Aziraphale sat on the adjacent chesterfield, so Crowley joined him, crossing their legs and acting casual. Not nervous at all. This was just like any other interview, though none of the major fashion houses would be caught dead with half this furniture in their waiting room. "How's fashion week going? It sounds so interesting."

Crowley smiled their sunniest smile, and told her small and enticing details about their last catwalk with a jewelry designer. She was riveted, asking a few questions here and there. 

Aziraphale chimed in, "It's a delightful spectacle, certainly. And so massive! Even the catwalks themselves are interesting and decorated by the designers," said Aziraphale. "I had no idea what I was getting into when I agreed to work as manual labor. I don't know how Crowley does it. They're simply spectacular." 

Crowley blushed a bit, warming their cheeks. Adam just watched, eyes gleaming, clearly scheming, as the adults chatted. Arthur wasn't very talkative, so it was mostly Deidre asking all the questions. He just chewed on an unlit pipe stem and gave the occasional grunt or huh. 

"What about your stalker? They caught him yet?" Adam said, practically bouncing with it. He’d clearly been waiting a while to say that. 

Aziraphale answered, "No, I'm afraid not, though we've had a few new developments this week. Fairly certain we know who it is, and he's been coming by Crowley's home, so just in case I've been spending a lot of time there. Hopefully he'll be caught soon."

"I hope you catch him and give him a good thrashing! That'd be wicked." 

Crowley didn't know how they felt about that. Hastur was scum, but he wasn't… well maybe he did deserve it. They'd certainly fantasized about their boyfriend kicking the shit out of their stalker before, but Hastur? That sounded both grand and horrible. 

Stupid feelings. You’d think any lingering trace of good will for their parents would be gone by now. 

"I’d rather not do any thrashing, dear boy, but I agree with the sentiment." 

"Let's move away from such unpleasant talk," Deidre said. “So where did you grow up, Crowley?”

The irony was not lost on them. Of course, normally, that would be moving on to less unpleasant topics. “I moved around a bit. Spent my youngest years in Falkirk, Scotland. Then we moved to Peterborough. In my early teens we lived in Liverpool, then a few other places after that.”

“How diverse. Are you still in contact with your family?”

Aziraphale’s face scrunched up, about to say something, so Crowley headed him off. “No. We were never close and had a falling-out when I was younger.” No need to mention Hastur, or his new stalking hobby.

“Like the rest of the Them!” Adam said with a smile. “You fit right in.”

“The Them?” said Crowley.

“An inside joke,” Aziraphale explained. “Adam styles the children as if they are in a gang of queer youth and so use the gender neutral pronouns to refer to their group. It started as a form of solidarity when Wensleydale had some trouble at school using they/them pronouns.”

“I thought Wensleydale used he/him?”

“He does, but didn’t at first. It took a while of trying things before he found what fit best.”

Crowley nodded. That was normal. Not like they had it all figured out yet. 

Discussion moved back to small talk. (The house had been Arthur's grandmother's, who it was implied had a title, inherited as a young man...They liked having such a big family, even though Aziraphale just kept making it bigger... They were enjoying the cooling fall weather). Brian stuck his head in and announced dinner was ready. They shuffled off to the dining room, everyone having assigned seats. An extra chair, clearly pulled from the kitchen table, had been squeezed in between Warlock and Aziraphale for Crowley. Dinner was heaped on serving dishes, and after everyone was seated they started passing them around. The teens dished themselves massive portions, while the adults took more reasonable amounts. As Aziraphale handed them each of the dishes, he labeled them, "steamed vegetable medley… garlic mash… Oh! These are leftover dinner rolls made by Wensleydale… chicken breasts, obviously… would you like anything to drink other than water, my dear?" 

"No, thank you, I'm fine," they said. No one else at the table had anything besides tall water glasses. No need to stand out. 

Dinner started without a prayer (thank someone), and the kids started recounting their days as was obviously typical (Brian didn't get accepted to an apprenticeship he'd applied for, but was planning to apply to a different one anyway, a carpentry program. Pepper was falling behind in maths and mad about it. Wensleydale was tutoring her, since he loved maths. Warlock still hated school but was passing without effort in every subject, same as Adam, except that Adam liked school.) 

"How was your day, Aziraphale?" Arthur asked. 

"Oh, very busy. Crowley had an early appointment with a designer in town at their offices for a fitting and then it was back to the big event for the afternoon. I got to watch the show from the back, luckily. It was a lot less intense than some of the others I've seen. Wasn’t it, dear heart?" Aziraphale turned to them and smiled softly.

"That's because he was a new designer." Crowley said. "This was actually his first time at fashion week, so he had a small budget and was still working out the kinks. His backstage was a mess. They had last minute alterations, one of the models almost stained her dress with her lipstick. Bit of a circus— well, bit more of a circus than usual. Good clothes though. Like his use of textures and movement. Strong up and comer."

"Oh, how very interesting," said Dierdre. 

"I guess," said Pepper. "It's just fashion stuff. That whole industry's built on sexism."

"Pepper! That's terribly rude," said Aziraphale. "Crowley is a guest—"

Crowley chuckled, "No, I don't mind. Go on." They liked her spunk, and wanted to see where she went with this.

"It's just people perpetuating impossible beauty standards on the rest of us and enforcing the gender binary by making it so men and women have completely different trappings. Fashion's stupid."

"Obviously I think differently, but I don't entirely disagree. The way things are now  _ is  _ stupid.” Pepper nodded while shoveling mash into her face, but they had her full attention, so they decided to answer her with the same consideration. “You’re completely right about gendering clothes being stupid and more about conformity, and there’s only a few designers and lines that are gender neutral, and they’re rare and niche. People shouldn’t have to be born as thin as me to be considered fashionable. Beauty standards are nothing but horseshite. But it’s the standard part, the part that’s saying you're better than someone else if you look a certain way, or that you should do this or that, that's the problem.”

“Yes, exactly!” said Pepper. Her face lit up, but before she could continue in that vein, Crowley continued talking.

“However, fashion’s a necessity, an inevitability. What’s more human than art, than loving and crafting beautiful and interesting things? It’s why we have paintings and rugs and architecture. Fashion’s just humans applying such notions to their clothing, their appearance. Make-up and draped dresses and shoes. As such, it can be fun, and meaningful, and valuable. Look at Aziraphale. He’s so happy with his unique and lovely style, and it suits him so. Fashion did that. That’s the good part of fashion. All the fake parts, all the pretentious nonsense and judgmental pricks, they can sod off. Go bugger themselves.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said. “Such language. And at the dinner table. In front of children.”

“It’s alright. We know what it means,” said Adam. “We’re not children anymore.”

“Yeah. And they  _ can  _ go bugger themselves!” said Pepper.

“It’s not alright, whether you know what it means or not, to be so impolite in polite company,” said Arthur. Aziraphale nodded emphatically, and Pepper rolled her eyes.

“Fine.”

“I’ll apologize for it all, then. I was the one who started it, and I shouldn’t have spoken so crassly. She was just repeating me,” said Crowley.  _ I’m not exactly a good influence. Bad influence. Fuck, Aziraphale’s gonna think I’ll ruin his kids _ . 

“Pay it no mind, dear heart. You’re a guest. And I think that the emphatic nature of your statement is well-earned, even if the phrasing was cheeky,” said Aziraphale. “Some of the people you work with are… deserving of such harsh sentiments.”

Crowley grunted in agreement, a little amazed. That was the closest Aziraphale had ever come to saying someone could go fuck themselves. Maybe they weren’t fucking this up. Dinner resumed. Pepper asked a few questions about where the good parts were, and Crowley directed her to some inexpensive and gender neutral designers she’d probably find appealing. Warlock piped up at that, and thanked them for recommending places for her so long ago. It was sweet, and they were touched. They told her she could ask anytime, they’d be more than happy to help again. 

Which apparently had been exactly the right thing to do, because the girl was ecstatic and immediately needed Crowley’s number, to text them. The rest of dinner was uneventful and when it ended, Adam and Arthur went to do the washing up. The rest of the kids dragged Aziraphale downstairs, where they wanted to show him things (mostly games or jokes, though Wendsleydale wanted to show him a calculus problem, the nerd). Crowley sat on the sidelines, watching, and before they realized it they were nodding off. 

Suddenly Aziraphale was by their side, a gentle hand on their shoulder. 

“Wake up, dearest.” he said. “I’m sorry, I got wrapped up and didn’t notice how tired you were. Let’s go home.”

“You’re already home,” they mumbled, blearily and let their eyes fall closed again.

Aziraphale chuckled and shook them, making them startle back awake. “Let’s go to bed, then.” 

Crowley drowsed on the drive home, and barely had enough energy to change before they were cuddled up with Aziraphale, asleep in their bed.

* * *

The last day of Fashion Week was nearly the busiest, only barely beaten by the first. Aziraphale had woken earlier than usual in order to accept a delivery downstairs, a secret from Crowley, and then once they arrived at the event, Anathema worked him hard. He was constantly rushing from trucks to tents, hauling racks of clothing and massive boxes of props, setting up decorations with her — really earning the badge that had granted him access. She directed all of the staging, clearly having issues with her lighting, since she had some special effect that made the light look like they were under water with the room waving and sparkling with white and blue lights on the walls and audience. All of the K.U.D. staff were similarly burdened. Cassius chewed out a model who had popped a button as he sewed it back on, dressing models and directing the wardrobe simultaneously. Newt was doing all the hair and makeup, though he had an assistant prepping skin and doing the basics for him. Alexis was coordinating everything, spending most of her time looking at paperwork and talking over a headset, but also patrolling and corralling everyone from labor to models to the other designers, making sure they were all on task and schedule. 

Once all the models were lined up and ready, Anathema fidgeting in the wings, Aziraphale finally got a moment to step back, breathe, and check on Crowley. 

He joined them where they waited last in line, as the headliner. They were wearing a long gown, black and dripping with lace, layered and complex and studded with black crystals. As it moved, bits of bright colors seemed to appear and disappear, and it was quite the extraordinary effect. A massive bell hung around their neck, similar to what many of the other models wore, but Crowley’s was the most elaborate with black and lacy filigree. Aziraphale had not gotten to see the whole look together before. It was very striking. Certainly fetching, but so was everything when it was on his love. 

"Everything tickety boo?" he asked. 

"Tickety boo?" they glared. "What?"

"Oh you know," and he waved his hands vaguely. Crowley relented and nodded, surely guessing at least some of his intent. Suddenly their attention was caught. 

"Now that's interesting," they mumbled, leaning to look at something at the front of the line. Aziraphale tracked their gaze to Anathema, who looked like she had a touch of stage fright. Newt was with her, an arm round her shoulders, leaning in to whisper. She was nodding every now and again to whatever it was he said, giving weak smiles up at him. 

"Poor girl. It's a big day, of course she's nervous."

The music changed, and suddenly Alexis was pulling Anathema to the edge of the curtains. She handed her a mic and shoved her on stage. 

Her voice over the speakers sounded clear and calm, not a trace of the nerves she'd shown as she described the collection to the crowd, and then the line was moving, each model stepping out at Alexis's direction. Anathema came back from on stage and joined them at the end of the line, where she would walk out last to collect her applause. She smiled and held Crowley's hand, only releasing it when it was time for them to walk. Alexis came over and shooed Aziraphale off before they finished the catwalk, telling him to start fetching boxes from the truck for their second catwalk, the ready-to-wear collection. While he was doing the fetching, he got his own box for Crowley, stashing it in the wings.

Breaking down the more elaborate couture catwalk and packing away all the larger and more layered costumes for it was at least less effort than putting it all up, but that they had to do it while simultaneously setting up for the second catwalk. Aziraphale barely got a glimpse of Crowley here and there until it was time for the second catwalk. Alexis had sent him to help seat guests this time, so he got to stand in the back of the audience and watch the show. Anathema looked stunning and confident as she introduced her ready-to-wear line, and the models looked grand as they strutted. It was interesting to finally see the product of all the months of hard work, of the final versions of the clothes that had shuffled around the workshop, slowly being added, edited, built from nothing. Everything was dark-colored and flowing. Very witchy, like they’d wanted. Some of the big bell necklaces were back, and some of them looked lovely in their simplified forms but… Well perhaps Aziraphale just didn’t understand fashion, nor why wearing a fancy gold cowbell was fashionable. 

Crowley was last, strutting tall and powerful. Their neck glistened with some iridescent shimmer, making it look longer and more beautiful than usual. They had a voluminous top of shiny dark silk that almost seemed to float around their torso, diaphanous layers trailing after them from the arms and waist, glittering slightly in the bright runway lights. Their legs were clad in skintight leggings made of black holographic scales. As they were walking back, Anathema stepped out and the thunderous applause started. She smiled, waved, and as Crowley approached took their arm, walking backstage arm in arm. 

Aziraphale hurried through his tasks to help break down this show, though by the time he finished Crowley had already changed into a completely different outfit and was back in Newt's chair. Their hair had been pulled back into a simple bun and they still wore the leggings but had changed tops to a grey tee under a satin black button up. 

"Isn't it rough on your skin to put on and take off so much makeup?" He blurted out. 

"Like you wouldn't believe," groaned Crowley.

"Yes, it dries out the poor models. I used an especially complex moisturizing routine on this application, though," said Newt as he patted on some powders. "Since it'll sit on the skin for the longest it'll hopefully give it time to sink in. Heal. That sort of thing." 

Crowley thanked Newt for his thoughtfulness, which flustered him, and he stammered out a “Don’t mention it.”

Anathema joined them. “Almost ready for our interview?” she asked Crowley.

Newt answered instead, “Almost. I need to do highlighter and setting spray. Did you want me to touch you up before you go?”

“Oh! Do I need it?”

Newt’s hands paused and he turned, looking Anathema up and down. His cheeks pinked and he turned back to brushing powders on Crowley. “No, not really. You might want to check the set on your lipstick or touch that up just to be careful. You have a tendency to lick and press your lips when you’re thinking.”

“Do I?”

Aziraphale had certainly not spent enough time around her to notice, but Newt hummed assent and Crowley nodded. 

“Right. Well. What do you set lipstick with, again?” 

“I’ll do it, just give me one moment,” Newt replied, spritzing something over Crowley’s face and neck. He waved his hands over it, fanning gently, then said, “Alright, all done.”

Crowley switched places with Anathema, who closed her eyes and let her lips fall open, just parted. Newt fished out a lipstick, using a thin brush to move it from the tube to her lips, and then a different, bigger brush to press some white powder on it that disappeared as it was applied. The whole time Newt just got redder and redder, pressing his lips so hard they disappeared into a line. 

“Oh-Okay. A-a-all finished,” he said with a squeak at the end, fumbling to clean and pack his brushes. Once he had all his cases locked away, he and Aziraphale took them to load on the truck while Anathema and Crowley left to go to their interview. Aziraphale was a bit nervous to be separated, but truly did not think that anything would happen in such a crowded event. It gave him a moment to fetch their present, get it ready, and then head over with the long black box in his arms to Vogue’s tent. Surprisingly, Newt followed him there, said he was going to fetch Anathema. 

When they arrived the interview was well under way, so they tip-toed into the tent it was being held in, a makeshift television studio made to look like a home. It had couches above a large red rug, and even a few tables with houseplants, all lit brightly by studio lights. Anathema perched primly on a red chaise lounge, while Crowley leaned casually beside her, a gentle sprawl with their legs crossed. They all held mostly full glasses of champagne. Between them and Aziraphale the camera people worked, two with video cameras and one with a big camera, who moved the most while snapping pictures.

“So tell me, why water effects for your couture and not the ready-to-wear collection?” said the interviewer, a very posh man in a navy suit with silver hair that only set off his flawless brown skin. 

“The idea was to give a bit of an homage to Alexander McQueen’s last fashion week showing, since it is the ten year anniversary of his passing. I wanted to take his undersea inspiration but make it more dark and magical. The transition from couture to ready to wear was supposed to be like the transition from the fantasy of dreams to waking up and being entrenched in reality, but still a modern occultist.”

“How interesting! You used holographic fabrics for the first time in this showing, was that as a callback to McQueen?”

“Indeed, especially his now iconic final look from that show, although we wanted to make our holographic fabrics distinctly our own. So instead of a blue base most of ours were black. A pearl to his jellyfish. We used several different kinds of custom printed holographic. Crowley’s still wearing the leggings from our ready to wear look, in our green-blue iridescent.”

Crowley lifted their foot and gestured grandly at their shiny calves.

“I see you’re also wearing shoes from the main house of Dior,” the interviewer said. 

“Yes,” said Crowley, wiggling their feet. They were wearing tall black heels that had a gold snake wrapping around their ankles and down one side. “It’s amazing how well they pair with a lot of Ko'ushichan Dior’s looks, and I’m always fond of a snake motif.”

Anathema took over. “We value our connections as a branch of Dior and worked closely with the main house for coherency so customers won’t feel lost moving between our line and theirs. And I think Crowley’s casual outfit exemplifies that, showing how to assemble a unique style and look from pieces of either collection.”

The interviewer asked them a few more questions, technical ones Aziraphale couldn’t really follow before they stood and shook hands.

“Thank you very much to the both of you. I’m now going to hand you off to my colleague to get a few photos. This is the Vogue runway photographer, Mr. Lucifer Morgenshtern.” The interviewer gestured and a tall man with straight blond hair stepped forward, the cameraman who'd been taking photos all along, but Aziraphale couldn’t see his face from his angle.

“Lovely to meet you,” said Anathema. 

He shook her hand, "Charmed." 

“Always a pleasure, Lucky,” said Crowley. He took their proffered hand but merely held it. 

“Is it, darling? I haven’t seen you in months, and now your star has risen so high, here. Perhaps you are the lucky one.” He chuckled, gave their hand a small squeeze, then dropped it. “If you would both follow me? I prefer to get a few shots in natural lighting, when available.”

They left the tents, Newt and Aziraphale trailing behind, stopping at a white wall tiled with logos in front of a red carpet walkway. Lucky had the two stand on the red carpet, taking a few pictures from a few angles before asking them to try a few other things. As Crowley’s photo sessions went it was extremely fast, very candid and not staged, and then the massive camera was set down. Lucky shook Anathema’s hand, thanking her. She smiled politely and left, heading to where Newt waited on the other side of the walkway than Aziraphale. As she approached him her smile grew genuine, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, leaning in to him a little as they walked away. 

“Well, my darling birdie, our time together was brief, but shining. You are a shooting star now, burning across the sky.” Lucky brushed a loose strand of hair from their cheek, ticking it behind their ear. “Be careful your luck does not run out, or you may find yourself merely burning. Ciao.” With a wave Mr. Morgenshtern was stepping off to the side, packing up his camera into his bulky equipment bags. 

As Crowley started towards Aziraphale they removed their overshirt. He held out the present and Crowley quirked an eyebrow up, visible over even the oversized sunglasses they wore.

“What’s this?” they said as they exchanged their outerwear for the long black box. 

“Nothing big, just a little present, to celebrate a successful and busy Fashion Week,” said Aziraphale. Crowley pulled at the black ribbon and opened it.

They froze before gathering the big bouquet up in their arms, letting the wrappings fall to the grass. It was a dozen roses, the darkest the florist had, a velvety purple. Apparently they didn’t have natural black roses, but when Aziraphale saw these he knew they were perfect for Crowley, and he was clearly right. 

“You—” Crowley’s voice broke, and they reached up to swipe one of their eyes with their fingertips. “ _ Thank you _ .” They buried the face in the blooms, smelling them with a soft smile on their face. 

Aziraphale felt his joy radiating from him.  _ God, they are so beautiful. I am so blessed. Thank you for bringing me into their life. _ He stepped closer and gave Crowley a quick kiss to the cheek. “You deserve a little celebration.”

They lifted their face from the blossoms, locking eyes with him, hot and intense even with the sunglasses shading them. A shiver went up his spine.  _ Oh, I want to get them in private and kiss them for hours. In any place they’ll let me. _

There was a click, startling Aziraphale. He turned, and saw Lucky, holding their phone up. That was the source of the little shutter noise. Lucky shrugged, then shifted his bags back up his shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt. What can I say, I am a photographer. We are opportunists who take what we want when we find it.” He tucked his phone into his pocket and winked. “Bye bye, my little birdie.” He laughed, as if to a joke only he understood, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fashion and art references for this chapter! Mostly, Ellie Mars’ wonderful genderqueer Crowley art. [ This lovely art of Crowley ](https://ellie-mars.tumblr.com/post/186505389621/plant-dad-mom-whatever-ko-fi-instagram) was what they wore to visit Aziraphale’s family. If you have never seen Alexander McQueen’s final runway show, it’s a lovely doozy, and [the last look](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/spring-2010-ready-to-wear/alexander-mcqueen/slideshow/collection#45) is the one Anathema references as their inspiration. Then the Vogue interview Crowley’s [ wearing this outfit, ](https://ellie-mars.tumblr.com/post/186592972296/more-hot-to-trot-crowley-and-some-other-assorted) and then later [ they get flowers from Aziraphale.](https://ellie-mars.tumblr.com/post/186768349311/wouldnt-admit-he-secretly-loves-when-his)
> 
> Additionally, I put in my final Utena reference. The one I’ve been building towards because I am a massive nerd who cannot be contained. Nanami’s cowbell, made by Ko’ushichan Dior. Feel free to yell at [me on tumblr!](https://serafaina.tumblr.com/)


	15. Chapter 15

They didn’t get an envelope that week. Or a letter. Or a visit. Nothing from their stalker at all. For the entirety of fashion week, there were no incidents. Crowley supposed that was because they had gotten a visit last week, but didn’t know how long that would last. They decided to check into a hotel to reassure Aziraphale that they were safe so that he could spend Saturday with his family. If it had been just them, they would have picked the cheapest dump with a weekly rate but they couldn't bear to see Aziraphale sleeping in squalor after working so hard for them all week. They had to grudgingly admit that it was a lot more relaxing in a nice place like this. It was clean, quiet and comfortable. 

It never even occurred to them to get a double room. The king they got was bigger than their usual bed, but it didn’t matter. They always slept tangled together with Aziraphale. 

They spent their weekend doing nothing, occasionally staring at the roses in a vase by their side of the bed and having really strong, unnamable feelings. Feelings that made them want to do things to Aziraphale. Not just sex things either, that’s what was weird. It made them want to bite him, or smash their cheek into him, or ask him to braid their hair. Wanted to buy him things. Little things and big things and just watch him be happy. He inspired plenty of sexual fantasies too, and they had gotten in several good wanks to indulge them, the smell of roses surrounding them as they basked in the afterglow.

Their phone chimed. 

Warlock had texted, “Hey. Why didn’t you come with Aziraphale today? He said you didn’t have to work.”

Thoughts flitted through their mind, answering. _ Because I never spend Saturdays with him. Because this is his family time, and that’s not me. Because I wasn’t invited. Because I’m moping and binging Golden Girls. _ All they typed out was, “Why would I?”

Ping! “Cause you’re one of us now.”

Crowley stared at the text, flopping backwards on the bed, holding it over them. Their chest ached and they thought they might cry. They couldn’t tell if they were happy or sad. Probably both.

It took awhile for them to come up with a reply. “I don’t think Aziraphale would agree.”

The “...” immediately popped up, disappeared, and popped back up. “That’s not what he said.”

“What?” Crowley said out loud, then texted back, “What did he say?”

“He said it was up to you.”

_ Did he now? _ “When?”

“Just now. I asked him.”

Crowley groaned. Meddling children. “Well he’s never invited me. I invited myself over last time.”

“I’ll yell at him.”

“Don’t—” they typed out and deleted. They tried again a few times, struggling to come up with something to say but nothing that didn’t sound pathetic came to mind. With a growl, they threw their phone onto the pillow and tried to ignore it. 

It pinged again. New text. They checked it. 

Warlock said, “Are you busy tomorrow?”

“No.”

There was a long pause before the next text. “Come with us to a picnic for lunch?”

_ Us? Us who? All of them? _ Crowley wondered. That seemed like a lot. But they’d already been in a room with them all at dinner, and that had gone just fine, save for them falling asleep in public like an 80 year old invalid. They texted Aziraphale, “Hey, Warlock is asking me to lunch.”

Aziraphale replied, “Yes! She wants us to spend time together. All of the kids are very curious about you, I’m afraid.”

“Is that alright with you?”

“Oh yes! I would enjoy it.”

_ Well then.  _ They texted Warlock back, “Sure.” 

The next morning, Crowley was nervous and maybe regretted having agreed to it. Maybe not, they needed to get in good with the kids to stay in Aziraphale’s good graces. And then again, maybe this was going to go poorly and they’d fuck it up so massively they would be dumped on the spot. Who knew? They certainly didn’t. None of this was something they’d done before. 

"What kind of picnic is this?" They asked, staring into their closet. 

"I don't understand the question," Aziraphale said. "The kind where you go on a picnic?"

Crowley sputtered. "That's not,  _ at all _ , helpful. Where are we going? What's on the agenda? Activities and whatnot?"

"Hyde park? And… to have a picnic? Maybe walk around a bit? Have you never been on a picnic?"

"Of course I've never been on a picnic! Do I look like the kind of person that goes on picnics?" 

"Oh. Well the kids said they would pack lunch and bring it, so we'll just meet them at the park, pray the weather holds, sit on the grass and eat. Afterwards you usually enjoy the park and being outside. Sometimes people bring lawn games, but I doubt they will."

Crowley grunted. They could work with that. Hard to fuck up casual semi-active wear. You just had to polish it. They looked fetching in their casual menswear. 

Aziraphale offered, "I don't think it matters what you wear, as long as you're comfortable."

Crowley sneered. Like they were worried about their  _ comfort _ . This was about getting those kids to like them, to think that they were cool. Like they weren't garbage to be discarded so that the kids wouldn't convince Aziraphale to dump them. It was cool enough that a jacket was necessary, and would look good with a tee. Stretch jeans had enough movement to be active in, and they had some nice Valentino sneakers… They held up their sneakers, black with black studding. 

"He wore Valentino's," they said, memories rising up like a tide.

"Who?" Aziraphale said. 

"The guy who attacked me. I knew I recognized the shoes. They were men's rockstud Valentino's. Same line as mine." They held them up. "Not this exact shoe, but similar. I saw them before I ran away." 

"We should update your case, let your new constable know. Maybe they can search for those in your father's belongings?" 

Crowley frowned. Hastur wouldn't wear designer shoes. Always made a big deal about how worthless branded shoes were. Branded clothes were valuable, and Hastur knew it paid sometimes to look ostentatious. But not with shoes. "You'd just get shit on them or somefin. Waste," he'd said. Maybe he'd changed his mind over the years? Maybe whatever shady business he and Ligur were in was getting so profitable he didn't care anymore?

"Is something the matter? Oh! My dear, don’t think about your bad memories of … of what’s happened." Aziraphale said.

"No, I—" before they could say anything else, Aziraphale wrapped them in a hug, smushing their face into his shoulder. Even if they wanted to say something, deny it, they couldn't, so they gave up and hugged back, breathing in the scent of him and enjoying his soft embrace. That feeling came back, golden and hot, and filled them from crown to toes. It was nice. Whatever it was.

* * *

Aziraphale was worried. Crowley was obviously nervous, in their fretful, frowny way, and had been fidgeting and twitching all morning, but he didn’t mention it, not wanting to rile him up further. Warlock had asked some rather pointed questions the day before about why Aziraphale wasn’t inviting Crowley to do things together, even showing them a text where Crowley had said that they’d had to invite themselves over just to meet everyone. 

Which was true, and he hadn’t even realized it. 

“Are you ashamed of us?” Warlock had asked. 

“Oh goodness, no! Not at all! I’m sorry if I ever made you think that, my dear. I’m very proud of you all.”

“Then let's do something together tomorrow!”

And Aziraphale had found himself hesitant again, and not sure why, but slightly blackmailed into agreeing anyway. It left him uneasy, and it was niggling in the back of his mind. He kept trying to smother it, not sure of it’s source, and enjoy the day with his loved ones. 

He escorted Crowley to the park, where the kids would take public transport to meet them there. They arrived early; the kids, Adam included, arrived late. Wensleydale carried a big picnic basket, clearly burdened by its weight, and Aziraphale relieved the poor boy of it as soon as they came close. It was quite heavy, and he was the smallest.

"So where are we headed?" asked Aziraphale, beaming at all the children. 

“To the pond,” replied Adam, the leader as always. He confidently set off deeper into the park, so Aziraphale followed at the end of the train, vigilant on Crowley’s behalf. He picked a spot and Brian laid out the blanket. They had brought Aziraphale's quilt, made out of his custom tartan, and piled on it. The sight of all his wards choosing their place in the boundaries of his pattern, even Crowley sprawled along one edge with a place saved for Aziraphale beside them made him start to tear up. They were his  _ family _ . There had been a time he thought he was alone in the world, would never have a family again and yet, here they were. 

"Are you alright?" Crowley said, gently. 

He wiped a tear away, and hummed a yes, not trusting the tightness in his chest with speech. He smiled his love at them all, and the kids smiled back, shaking their heads at his sentimentality while digging into the stack of sandwiches with gusto. Crowley's eyebrows were brought together in concern, so he patted them on the shoulder, hopefully reassuring them. He just wanted more of this so badly. He sat next to his love and basked in the moment.

They ate and chatted, light and fun, the teenagers ravenous as usual. 

"It's really impressive how different you look today," Warlock said to Crowley. "You look so manly. Usually you look so feminine." 

"Usually? You've only seen me once before," Crowley replied. 

"I follow you on Instagram and Twitter, though."

Crowley blinked, their eyebrow twitching. "You do?" Aziraphale found himself surprised, though he shouldn't be. He did talk a lot about how amazing Crowley was, it was only natural that Warlock would be interested.

"Yeah, ever since Aziraphale showed me your pictures. I love your style. I like that you label most of the clothes you're wearing in all your selfies. Helps me learn." 

"Oh."

Aziraphale’s attention was caught by someone in the corner of his eye. He turned to look and saw Newt, walking along one of the paths.

“Crowley, look it’s Newt!” He pointed.

Crowley squinted in that direction. “So it is.”

“Should we invite him over?”

Crowley hummed. 

Someone else caught his attention and he moved quickly off down the path to— “Is that Anathema?” Aziraphale said. 

“I think it is. Wonder what they’re up to on a Sunday,” said Crowley.

“Who’re they?” asked Wendsleydale.

“Anathema is one of Crowley’s employers, and Newt also works for her.”

“Is she a model?” asked Pepper.

“No,” said Crowley. “But she certainly could be, couldn’t she?”

“Definitely,” said Pepper.

“Gay,” said Brian, teasingly, and Pepper sneered at him. 

“Is she gay?” said Adam.

“Don’t know. Never came up. That’s not really something you ask your boss,” said Crowley.

"You’re queer though, right?" said Adam. Crowley nodded with a shrug. "But like… How queer  _ are  _ you? Like, what are your queer-dentials?" 

"Adam! That is quite rude. That's a very personal question."

"If it's too personal they don't have to answer, ‘course. I'm just wondering how many they've got, cause Wensleydale is winning with three."

Crowley frowned. "How many what?"

"Queer-dentials. I'm bi, Pepper and Brian are gay, so we only got the one. Warlock's bi and trans, but Wensleydale is aro, ace,  _ and _ trans. That's three, so he's winning."

Aziraphale pressed his lips, gearing up for a lecture about how queerness wasn't something you could win and more labels didn't make you more queer but Crowley threw back their head and laughed. The kids joined in, apparently understanding the joke he was missing out on, so he dropped it, let them enjoy themselves. 

"Well, I'm afraid I'm complicated. I don't really fall in the short alphabet. You'll have to put me down as several question marks," Crowley said once they'd died down to a chuckle. 

"Well, are you a boy or a girl?" said Pepper.

"Nope," said Crowley. “And also yes.”

Pepper looked mildly annoyed but conceded the point. 

Aziraphale spoke up, "When we've talked about it, Crowley has said they lean somewhere around agender, non-binary, or gender fluid. They're not sure, since nothing fits quite right. You can, however, accurately say that they are genderqueer." 

Crowley nodded, pointing at him. 

"Well see that's three sort of points right there," said Adam, the other kids nodding along. “Cause that’s genderqueer and trans and a question mark.”

“No.” Crowley said. “I’m not trans.”

“But if you weren’t assigned as genderqueer at birth, then you changed, yeah? So, trans,” said Wensleydale. 

Crowley frowned, their eyes darting to Aziraphale and back down, barely visible behind their sunglasses, but Aziraphale had learned to tell. They looked scared, like they always did when this came up a subtle terror that mostly was transmitted by tensing up, yet acting casual. “M’not trans.” 

"Okay… Well, what about sexuality, that's a little easier, yeah?" said Brian. "You just gotta know what you think is hot."

The tension seeped from their shoulders. "Yeah. But if I don't know what gender I am, how do I know if it's same gender or other gender attraction? The whole homo/hetero thing is the basic distinction for sexuality," Crowley said, looking much more relaxed now on less touchy ground. 

And that landed like releasing a bee in church, gasps and yelling all around. The children broke into squabbles about the point of various distinctions, and Crowley leaned back on their elbows, enjoying the chaos. They started chuckling, drawing attention back to them. "I'm actually pansexual, so it doesn't matter," they said.

Outrage. Pepper rolled her eyes, Brian clicked his tongue, and Wensleydale tutted. Warlock just looked pleased. They got along so well. Topics moved away from the personal and into the more esoteric points of the usefulness of homo/hetero distinction, and the definitions of bi versus pan, and Aziraphale let his mind wander. It, of course, returned to the unease they felt. He idly ate a cucumber sandwich and let himself open that box, memories long buried falling out. 

Being homeless and going on “dates” just to get a meal, too young to realize that that he was doing sex work, and then struggling with their self worth when he was told. Gary, whom he thought was his boyfriend, rearing back when he asked if they could go out sometime and looking at him like he was stupid. "No. Did you not understand? You're not… it's just fucking." Every subsequent man he was interested in doing the same. Being used for sex, over and over, and not realizing it, or inspiring disgust in the men he liked because he was fat. Showing him over and over again that no one would ever like him for who he was. Oscar, after being confessed to and politely rejecting him, spending weeks where Aziraphale thought they were fine and then suddenly moving out, cutting him completely off as a friend even and leaving Aziraphale responsible for more rent than he could afford. 

Aziraphale looked up, watching the clouds float past. It all made sense, this deep unease. Crowley was gorgeous, well off, talented, and so much better than him. It was a miracle that someone like them wanted someone like him. That they liked him as a friend, wanted him as a lover. He was so lucky, and feared his luck would run out. And asking for what you wanted, well, that never worked out in Aziraphale’s experience. Of course he’d be hesitant to ask for more from Crowley; he didn’t want to lose them. It felt good to acknowledge it, though it didn’t go away, but it more peacefully sank back into the background. 

Crowley put their hand on his arm, and Aziraphale gave up cloud gazing. They were much more beautiful anyway. 

He had tarred over his heart after Oscar, a dark, protective coating between him and heartbreak, celibate and alone in those many years since, throwing himself into being a good guardian instead. The children had given him an outlet for love, and loved him in return, but it didn’t touch the blackened shell in his ribcage. But Crowley liked black things, and watching them laughing and joking with everyone made him feel like the pounding of his heart was cracking it back open. 

For the rest of their picnic, and as they walked around, he held Crowley's hand, trying to pour all the love he felt through their connection. 

When it was time to go, Warlock and Wensleydale hugged him goodbye, offering Crowley the same. Shockingly, they accepted, giving them a pat on the back and waving goodbye to the rest as the children left. 

When they were alone, Aziraphale kissed Crowley, hard. They blushed dark red from ears to clavicles. "What was that for?"

"A thank you. For being with me."

Crowley mumbled something, grumpy. It was so cute how grouchy they got when flustered. How they got more and more inarticulate as they became turned on. Who would have thought a "ngk" could be so hot? 

"I'd like to take you back to the hotel and kiss you everywhere, dearest," he said. “Ravish you.”

"Ngk," they said, looking around scandalized. 

That was exactly the response he'd wanted. No one was looking at them, and he nipped their ear. They stumbled, stuttering consonants. He grinned at them. 

"Let's go somewhere private," he said, taking their hand and leading them out of the park.

Back at the hotel, the front desk staff flagged them down. 

“You’ve had a delivery, sir,” the lady said, and bent down to retrieve a box from behind the counter. “For room 326, that’s you, yes?”

“Yup,” said Crowley, looking pleased. It must be something they ordered. He supposed they were free to do so, now that they were safely away from their stalker. Perhaps they’d been putting some purchase off?

Crowley got their box, a big thing, and they returned to their room. Once inside Crowley shoved the box in Aziraphale’s hands. 

“It’s for you,” they said, suddenly busy elsewhere. 

He opened it, and inside was a bouquet of dahlias. They were his favorites, the white ones that blushed color inside, pinks and oranges and yellows. All those months ago, when they were still pretending to be dating, he’d told them that these kind of dahlias were his favorite fall flower. 

“You remembered,” he said in a hushed voice, his eyes watering. 

"Yeah, well… just thought I'd return the favor," they said, waving at the roses by the bed and avoiding eye contact as they took off their shoes. The box also contained a lovely green glass vase, and Aziraphale settled the flowers in it on the other side of the bed, watered and happy. They matched, in a strange way, to the dark roses, blushing black on the other side, the grey hotel comforter blending them together. When he accosted Crowley in a hug, squeezing his gratitude into them, they harrumphed and patted his arm, but the quirk of their lips and crinkling around their eyes gave away how pleased they were. 

How was he supposed to resist kissing that tiny smile? He was only human. Crowley turned to join in, and seemed surprised by the quickly escalating passion of their kissing, but soon was moaning into it as Aziraphale sucked his appreciation for them into the cords of their neck. He backed them up against the bed, and picked Crowley up and set them down on the bed, kissing the whole way. Crowley moaned so loud during, going a bit limp and shaky— it was quite plain they liked being a bit manhandled. 

_ Good to know _ . He pulled back and smiled, happy to be learning more about his love and how he liked to be loved. Crowley smiled dazedly back, eyelids heavy with lust. He put the tips of his fingers on Crowley sternum and pushed, slow but firm, until he pinned them to the bed with one hand. Crowley's eyes widened and their mouth fell open, all his energy focused on Aziraphale, on his mouth as he licked his lips and brought them down to keep kissing. Aziraphale let up the pressure, using his hand to unbutton Crowley's coat instead, dipping under their shirt to feel the hard planes of their stomach. They tensed as their shirt rucked up, Aziraphale's hand approaching their chest.

"Are you alright?" Aziraphale pulled back to ask breathily. 

Crowley nodded, biting their lip, but didn't un-tense. Aziraphale moved his hand away and gave them a peck to the cheek. They relaxed with a soft exhale. 

"You must tell me if I'm making you uncomfortable, dearest," he said. 

"You weren't."

"I clearly was," he said softly. "That's alright, I don't mind. I won't take it personally. I understand that you're uncomfortable with your body. I wouldn't want to trigger your dysphoria or anything." 

Crowley's face scrunched up. "Dysphoria?" 

"Gender dysphoria. I presume that’s the issue. You've made it clear that you're uncomfortable with your own genitals."

Crowley blinked, otherwise frozen. Hesitantly, they said, "And you think that it's because of dysphoria?" 

"Is it not?” Aziraphale sat back, giving Crowley room to think. “Gender dysphoria is feeling very uneasy and dissatisfied with your gender or sex characteristics, or how you've been assigned." In response Crowley grew silent, but they were thinking so hard that their brain was going to overheat, so Aziraphale tried to interrupt before they hurt themselves. "It may not apply to you, it merely seemed the most plausible explanation for your reluctance. A lot of queer people feel distressed when their body doesn't fit their self-image." 

Crowley blinked at him and grew terrified. Aziraphale gathered them up in a hug, the poor boy.

"Whatever it is that’s upsetting you, it'll be alright. I’m here for you." 

"It's not…" Crowley trailed off and returned the hug. They started again at a near whisper. "My body fits my self image… so. It's not that. I just don't… you will… if we did… I want to, I do… to do it. Sex. Sex stuff. But I'm not… it's complicated. Let me just please you. Let me make you happy?" 

Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley's hair. "My dear, you already make me very happy. You don't have to do anything else for that." 

Crowley hands trailed lower, "I mean, let me do things for you. Sex things." They reached down, palm hesitating above his tenting trousers. 

Aziraphale caught their wrist gently, holding them back. "I don't want to take advantage of you, for this to be one-sided. I want you to enjoy yourself, too,” he said gently. He wouldn’t use Crowley like he had been used. Never. 

"I will!" Crowley said. “I’ll enjoy it.”

"How, exactly?” 

“I like seeing you. Pleasing you.”

Aziraphale thought back to themselves, how it felt good to give others pleasure. But that wasn’t the same, and he wouldn’t accept it from Crowley. He shook his head. They deserved better. “That’s rather unfair, don’t you think, my dear? If you don't want me to touch you, would you at least touch yourself?" 

That surprised them. "With you?"

"Oh, that would be very fun." Crowley looked uncomfortable still, so Aziraphale searched for something that might help. "What if I was blindfolded? So I couldn't see anything you were doing. Would that help?" 

They sucked on their lower lip, interested. "You wouldn't mind?”

Aziraphale chuckled. "Assuredly not. Quite the opposite. I like it when you command me. Being blindfolded and at your mercy is an incredibly appealing prospect."

The air grew intense, heavy. Crowley bit down hard on their lip, hard enough that Aziraphale expected to see blood coming from his sharp canines.

"You’d like that?” Crowley whispered. “Really?”

"Yes, please." 

"... Then blindfold yourself and undress for me." 

Aziraphale hurried to obey, setting all of his lovely clothes carefully to the side. Crowley sat on the edge of the bed, their fists pressed into their knees, chewing on their now-red lips in barely-contained fervent interest. He tied his bowtie as a blindfold last.

When he was finished there was a long pause before Crowley said, “Come here.”

Aziraphale did, taking hesitant steps in the unfamiliar space until his knees bumped into the mattress. He felt Crowley’s hands reaching up, tracing his shoulders and caressing down his sides. He shivered and held still, waiting, his anticipation building, silently begging for more orders, more touch. Crowley sighed a great rush of air and gathered Aziraphale up in a crushing embrace, the layers of their clothing rubbing his bare flesh. They rubbed their cheeks into his belly. 

“You are so soft. Even your pubes are fluffy. ‘S nice.” They retreated, leaving only the rustle of cloth as a sign of their presence. “Get on the bed.”

Finally, Aziraphale climbed up on his hands and knees, baring himself in the slightly embarrassing way sex often required, and realized that although this was usually what his partners had wanted from him, it was probably not what Crowley wanted. “How would you like me, sir?”

Crowley groaned. “Oh fuck, that’s hot.” 

“You like being called sir?”

“That too, yeah.”

_ They’d liked being begged, I bet, _ he thought. “Can I touch myself? Please?” A moan echoed in the room, louder than the last, and Aziraphale repressed a smile. He’d been right. “I want to show you what you do to me.”

“Oh fuck yes. Yes, do it. Lay down and show me.”

Aziraphale, not certain of exactly where at the head of the bed Crowley was, turned so he was laying across the center, grateful it was a big bed. He trailed his hand down his body, toying with his nipples along the way. It excited him, being watched, and amplified the pleasures of his own touch. Crowley sucked in a breath, which they didn’t let out until Aziraphale’s hand found his prick.

“I get so hot for you, my dear. Just thinking about you, and kissing you, look how hard I’ve gotten.” He gave himself a few pumps, and his hand hit a bit of wetness at the tip. “See? I’m leaking for you.”

“Oh yes,” and the bed moved as Crowley shifted on it, bumping their bare knees against his side as they crowded close. Aziraphale put his free hand on their thigh, rubbing little circles with his thumb into their silky skin. 

“I want to touch you. Is this alright? Can I touch your knee as I show you how excited you make me?”

“Yeah,” and Crowley’s hand joined his, intertwining their fingers. “Fuck yourself for me. I like it. I like to see. Look at you. You look so good.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to moan, so impossibly turned on by that, ratcheting up the pleasure of their activities. Crowley liked it. Liked what they saw. Crowley wanted him. He obeyed, stroking himself in earnest, holding on Crowley’s hand as a point of contact in the darkness. He didn’t mind the feeling of being hobbled and spread for consumption, because the darkness was warm, filled with Crowley, surrounding him with the sound of their heavy breathing growing louder and faster and he barreled towards his own crescendo.

“Are you—” he asked, uncertain how to phrase it. Are you with me? Are you enjoying yourself?

“Yes.” 

A jolt of pleasure ran up his spine, tingling out to his fingertips. Crowley was watching him and pleasuring themselves to it. They both were doing this, together. In the light of day. Not by accident or a fluke, but because they wanted him and he wanted them. Crowley hadn’t seen him and changed their mind, thought better of being together. They weren’t hesitant because of his failings. “Oh, yes, please do,” he said. “Thank you, sir.”

A chuckle broke the rhythm of their huffs. “So polite.”

“It’s not just manners. I  _ am  _ thankful for you.” He slowed and turned his face towards Crowley. “That you came into my life. Ah! That you care for me. That you’d want to spend time with me, ah, be intimate with one another. You are a blessing.” He squeezed their hand to emphasize his point. 

Crowley lifted it, pressed a kiss to it. “Thank you," they said, their voice dripping with emotion. 

"Good to know it's mutual. Like our activities."

Crowley scoffed. "You are ruining the mood with your sex education jokes." 

After a kiss of apology, Crowley hummed back, a deep thrum he could hear their smile in. "We can do something else if you'd like,” he offered, stilling his hand.

Crowley groaned. "No, this is good." They let go and he missed the point of connection, but then suddenly Crowley was straddling his thighs, their firm bottom pushing on his knees. It felt so good, the pressure of them, the small motions transmitting across them as Crowley stroked themselves. He wished he could see. He wanted to see Crowley's face slacken with pleasure. See how far that blush traveled as they got closer and closer. Were they the kind of person whose brows went up or drew down as they peaked? 

He pulled his cock with renewed vigor, quickly building himself back up. 

Crowley's hand cupped his bollocks, gently massaging them, and he moaned loudly. 

"Oh, oh dear. I'm going to—"

"Yeah?" Crowley's voice was so low and breathy between rapids huffs. "I want that. I want to watch you come for me." 

Crowley started rocking their hips, the tension in their naked thighs pressing and rubbing against his, and it was all so much. With a shout he crested, pleasure flooding his body in waves. Crowley rocked harder, little “ah ah” sounds escaping. As the waves of his own settled into a boneless afterglow, Crowley gasped, holding their breath, their rhythm breaking. They orgasmed with a swallowed groan, as if trying to hold themselves back. 

Aziraphale reached out, running his hands along their quivering thighs. It worked, breaking the floodgates as Crowley gasped and panted their way through their orgasm. They fell forward, forehead pressed to his chest, gasping hot breaths across his skin. Exhausted but overflowing with love, Aziraphale wrapped them in a hug and kissed their crown. 

When the glow faded he realized Crowley was still wearing their shirt, only naked on the bottom. He chuckled and rubbed their back through the fabric, mussing their hair with more kisses. They grumped, pulling back and away. Aziraphale pouted about it. 

"What are you looking so sour about?" Crowley's voice came from the other side of the room. 

"I was enjoying that cuddle," he replied. 

"Mmmnnnyea," they said, the sound of clothes rustling, "but it was getting sticky. 'N it got on my clothes."

"Oh. My apologies," he said, embarrassed.

" 'S fine."

"May I go clean up?" He sat up, reaching for the blindfold. 

"No!" Crowley barked. Aziraphale froze, taken aback. "Sorry, sorry. One moment, I'm almost done." And he could hear them jumping up and down on one foot, scrambling into their tight trousers. 

"No, not a problem at all, dearest. Take your time. I'm at your beck and call still," he said. “Always.” Scooting to sit straight on the edge of the bed, he folded his hands in his lap. The sounds in the room slowed, stopped. Aziraphale smiled, not sure where they were but feeling their eyes on him. It was fine, he tried to project. He would wait as long as Crowley needed. Them feeling safe with him was more important than fixing the feeling of semen crusting on his stomach. 

There was more movement about their hotel room, though Aziraphale was too unfamiliar with the layout to guess what, and then long, gentle fingers were cupping their face, pulling down his blindfold. Crowley was looking down at him, fully clothed in their comfortable separates, their golden eyes shining amber and liquid, like honey, matching their freckles across their nose and cheeks. Their hair formed into a fiery halo, otherworldly and gold-tinged, matching the love he had for them.

They kissed him, deep and soft on his lips.

"Thank you," they whispered. 

"No, thank you. That was a lovely time." 

Crowley snorted. "Only you would describe kinky sex as 'a lovely time.' Go clean up." One more peck to the forehead and Crowley released him. The self consciousness of being nude by himself was starting to chafe, so he scurried to the bathroom, and hopped into the shower.

_ Was that kinky? _ he thought to himself in the warm water. If anything that seemed normal to him. His prior partners usually were bossy, and told him what to do or just did whatever they liked to him. And adding a blindfold was not that out of the ordinary. Was it? Crowley certainly seemed to like it, to find it comforting. The shampoo ran down his face and he closed his eyes, fumbling a bit as he rinsed. He imagined himself doing this with someone he had only just met watching. It made him feel scared, and uneasy. 

It made him feel vulnerable. 

“ _ Oh. _ ”

He’d given up quite a lot of control, put himself in a very defenseless position, hadn’t he? It hadn’t occurred to him because he usually felt that way, emotionally, when he was with his previous partners. He always got more involved, falling in love so easily with men who didn’t care about him, and he’d been submitting to them without realizing it, just taking on the role of a ‘bottom’ hook, line and sinker without question. It felt like discovering he was a whore all over again.

He cried as he finished showering, tears blending in with the spray, feeling stupid and dirty. He avoided the mirror as he dried himself, unable to confront his reflection. He wrapped up in the towel, tried to buck up, and exited. Crowley was sitting at the desk, on their laptop, and they looked up. Their brow wrinkled in concern. Frowning, they stopped what they were doing and stood. 

“What’s wrong?” they said.

“Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale said, trying for breezy. 

“Horseshite. You’ve been crying. Your eyes are all red and puffy.”

_ Ah. Should have looked in the mirror.  _ Aziraphale went to his suitcase, digging out clothes and getting dressed, desperately wanting to be covered. Crowley hovered, bobbing back and forth on the other side of the room, both impatient and yet, waiting for him. 

Clothed, he gathered himself, smoothing everything, and sat on the foot of their bed. 

“Truly, it is unimportant. I was thinking of the past, that’s all. Distant things. You have nothing to fear,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley took his hands in both of theirs and knelt in front of him. “You’re hurting. That’s not unimportant.”

His eyes tingled, threatening tears again. “... Thank you.”

Crowley smiled, warm and soft, and patted his hands. “Tell me about it. Share the burden. I can’t be the only one loading their tragic backstory on their boyfriend.”

He exhaled a little laugh, earning a happy head weave from Crowley. “You’re spot on, dearest. Well, I told you that I was kicked out and lived on the streets when I was younger, remember?” Crowley nodded. “Right. Well. I, uh, did things that I’m not proud of. I didn’t have a job, but I had a phone, the last mercy of my mother, and a few places to sleep that were out of the weather, but food was a bit of an issue. So I would arrange dates— no, let’s not pretty this up. I would go on hookup websites and barter for my meals. I thought I was being practical, young gay me, until one of my “dates” wanted something I didn’t want to do. He threw a wad of money in my face and called me a useless whore who should just shut up and do it, he’d pay extra and… I-it-it put my solution in starker terms than I could handle. I became very depressed and it took a lot for me to come to term with my naivete and actual circumstances.”

Crowley pouted, eyes sad, but sad for him, not upset with him. They just accepted him, weren’t judging him, weren’t pitying him. It was not the reaction he expected; it was  _ much  _ better. He loved this person so much, was so lucky to be with someone this accepting, and the accompanying rush of warmth choked him up. He cleared his throat and continued. “I didn’t realize what we did was kinky sex, so when you said that, it got me thinking. I only just realized I’ve been putting myself in submissive positions without intent, without thinking, and it brought up those old wounds. Those same feelings.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would hurt you.”

Aziraphale pulled them up into a hug. “No, no. You did nothing wrong. I enjoyed that. I love being with you. The specters of the past might be haunting me but that’s nothing to do with you.”

Crowley returned his hug, kissing him on the cheek. “We don’t need to do that ever again.”

“But what if I want to?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yes, please.”

They grinned. “We can switch it up, too, if that would help.”

He hummed. “It probably would. And I’ve been thinking about how lovely it would be to hold you down and have my way with you.”

Crowley swallowed, hard. “Y-y-y-you,” they swallowed again, “Uh, have?”

“Mmm. If you’re amenable. You certainly seem like you’d be very interested.”

It was always fun when their face turned as red as their hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the unannounced hiatus. I’m just very busy and stressed and so it took a lot of time and effort to get this chapter finished. (Work and chronic illness and we’re buying a house and COVID and just, life being a lot, ya know?) I won’t drop this story, it’s got a rough outline to the end so it’s not going to stall, I promise, and next week we should have an update as usual barring terrible housing difficulties.
> 
> Much gratitude to SlateBlueFlowers, who helped give me the idea for the end of the chapter when I did get stuck (Did you guy know these walnuts can just SAY things to each other instead of not sharing their insecurities? B/c I forgot 😅 ), and for betaing.


	16. Chapter 16

Madame Tracy was bright and cheery as she shuffled through a stack of contracts. “You’ve done so well, dearie, it’s rather exciting, you know? Offers for jobs have been flooding in since Fashion Week. I’m going to actually have to decline some work for you! And don’t worry, I’ll pick the best offers, you’ll see, but there are only so many hours in a day and you can’t be in two places at once— Ah! Here it is!” She held up a contract triumphantly, and Crowley stared blankly at it. Like they could read the tiny print from the other side of her desk as she waved it at them. 

With a curl of their lip, they said, “Are you going to tell me what that is or just wiggle it at me?”

“Oh. Right. Well, Dior, the main house, not K.U.D., well K.U.D. too but anyway, Dior wants to book you for their Fall Ad campaign. They apparently thought you represented their brand quite well on the catwalk. They’ve booked you for a three location shoot starting this week, one of which will be a fly out location. On one of the mountains, I forget which. Total compensation is just two under two hundred thousand. I tried to argue for the last two but they held firm, so one ninety eight will have to suffice.”

“You— What?” They sat up straighter, actually putting their feet on the floor for once. Their mouth went dry and they swallowed. That couldn’t be right, what they heard. 

“Booked you an international billboard and print ad campaign for just under two hundred grand because I’m an amazing agent and you love and appreciate me.”

“Whu— Yeah, absolutely. You are magnificent! Stunning! Masterful!” They made air kisses in her direction and held their hands up in praise. She preened, twisting back and forth to swish her skirts, surprisingly sweet and adorable for the old gal. Crowley threw in a small round of applause, since she had certainly earned it, which she joined in.

“Good on you, too. Couldn’t have done it without your talented self doing so smashingly at Fashion Week. Bravo, dearie, bravo!” She fished out a pen and set the contract in front of them, pointing out where to sign as she went over the particulars. Names, dates, locations, requirements, etc. Shoot started soon, they’d have to be ready fast. 

“Now, let’s go over the rest,” she said, sitting back down and smoothing her skirts, adjusting her little reading glasses as they went. The rest included three more photoshoots with K.U.D, two catwalk shows, a private showing, six interviews and a “screen test.” The last wasn’t a gig per se, more like a final exam at the end of a semester of classes, where a professional cameraman would be hired for recording some “reel” for their audition speeches, using of all the skills they’ve gained up to that point, for Madame Tracy to try and book them acting work as well as applying to acting school.

It was a lot. An exciting amount. They would be busy for months getting it all done and their earnings were quickly ratcheting up, to likely top a half million by the end of the year. 

“That brings us to money management. Now I was thinking—”

“I, uh, I have a request,” they interrupted. She shut her mouth audibly and gestured for them to go on. “I need to move—”

“Yes, yes, you certainly do! I’m so excited you finally are ready! I knew this day would come, I knew it. Oh, you are gonna be so much happier living somewhere other than that dingy sad little studio. Good for you, finally ready to move, and a great time too. Real estate is an excellent investment and I’ve been trying to get you to buy for ever so long. It’s just the best idea, dearie, the best.” She prattled on, praising their choice to move as she searched for something in her desk. She pulled out a business card with a “Ah-ha! I got it.” She handed it to them. “This is my favorite Estate Agent, he’s a doll. Dave Bickell, that’s his name. Helped me find my own house, helps lots of my clients. Very professional, Dave, and no nonsense. He won’t be trying to con you into spending too much, and he’s a great negotiator. He will take good care of you. Right. So, I will give him a heads up that I’ve sent you and you call that number right there on the card, tell him what you’re looking for, tell him what kind of house you want. We can get you moved in in a month or two, I think.”

“Wow, that fast? That would be great.” They stared at the card in their hand, a little overwhelmed. She moved on to talking figures, apparently convinced that they would want four hundred thousand liquid for the purchase, which boggled them a little. That seemed like way too much, but when they said so Tracy argued strongly that it wasn’t.

“You have it, Crowley. You have it already. If you wanted to be safe and wait to purchase till after I collect payment from Dior, that’s only two weeks away. And then when you do buy, it’ll be in cash, paid in full. No interest payments to a bank to undermine costs, no escrow, nothing complex. And then you won’t have rent. Even if you got in a terrible accident tomorrow and couldn’t model anymore, you’d be safe, and able to live in your home. You’d just need to earn enough for food and utilities and taxes with a tight stipend from your retirement assets, you have a good 25 years of living as it stands.”

“Really? I didn’t realize.”

“You’ve done an amazing job building up your retirement fund, Crowley dear. Just amazing. You’ve pinched pennies like a real professional. So I want you to look at this purchase as permanent. Not just another terrible place to live, or even an alright place to live. I want you to get a dream home that you’ll be happy in for the next decade. Someplace you’ll love to be, and can feel safe and secure in that purchase. If you don’t need all four hundred, wonderful. But it’s there for you. Get your dream home.”

And wasn’t that a thought? A dream home. Crowley had never really dreamed about having a home, because it never really felt like they would. They’d just been existing, scrabbling uphill and not worried about what they wanted, only how it looked, how to get ahead. But they were ahead now, weren’t they? They worked for an internationally renowned design company, and were booking international advertisement gigs for six figures. Even if they fell from grace and ruined their career, they had safe outs, and a house would at least give them a place to land. 

They spent the rest of the day constantly getting lost in thought, daydreaming. What did they want? Where did they want to live? What kind of place was their dream? What did they need to feel at home?

Across the hotel room Aziraphale chuckled, his nose deep in a book he’d been reading for the last several hours. He had maybe shifted a few times in the armchair, a cold cup of half-drunk cocoa sitting on the table beside him. Crowley glowed, inside, as he watched him. 

His dream home had Aziraphale in it. Of that he was certain. 

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley’s schedule settled back into the routine— well, as routine as Crowley's schedule ever was. Thursday’s was their regular meeting with Anathema, Newt, Cassius and Alexis, where they were back to designing for their next show. Sunday’s they did defensive arts classes and tutoring together, as well as acting classes Tuesday nights, voice coaching on Monday mornings, and various other appointments around town with all sorts of lovely and interesting industry people, with their various catwalks, photoshoots and other events peppered in. They were nervous at their last photoshoot, and Aziraphale was as well, though for different reasons. It was the first of three for Dior, and not Anathema’s Dior, the regular one, which, Crowley had explained, made it a much bigger deal. It was a clothing shoot in a studio, where they and several other models wore many warm layers in a cool cement room in front of several different backdrops. Before all of this, if you had asked Aziraphale what a photoshoot looked like, this is probably what he would have pictured. Everyone was polite, there was a table with bagels on it, with those big studio lights and raw concrete floors with wires taped down everywhere. 

It looked like things you see on television, when they zoomed out and showed things behind the scenes. So much different than the last shoot Aziraphale has escorted them to, the disgusting travesty  _ that  _ was. 

Which was why they had started their next photoshoot feeling confident and calm, trusting in the professionalism of Dior and the day’s crew, but when they arrived on set and it was another high rise flat and Crowley was told this shoot would be partially nude, Aziraphale became quietly livid. 

"I thought you said this was an accessory focused photoshoot?" he whispered in Crowley's ear. 

"It is," they replied. 

"Well then why do they want you to be… to be undressed?"

"Probably so that there is nothing else to pull focus— that means to compete for attention. The only thing to look at will be their product.”

“And your… your… you,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Well… yeah. But being a model is about being a fancy hanger. Look good. Make the product look better,” they said matter-of-factly. 

“They had better be on their best behavior today. They had better. I won’t stand for it, for the… For the horridness. They can’t treat you like that, Crowley.”

“It’s fine, angel. Leave be.”

“I won’t. You don’t—”

A grip interrupted him, “AJ, you’re needed in wardrobe.”

“Yes, thank you,” Crowley said with a smile and sauntered off, leaving Aziraphale to fume silently, taking out his nerves on his poor pocket square. 

“What wardrobe,” he mumbled. “A single pair of trousers? The director wants partial nudity. I’m sure he does. Letch.” He scoffed, pulling and twisting the cloth. It was his rainbow trimmed one, and it really didn’t deserve such treatment, but it was this or ruin Crowley’s professional reputation. Why would they agree to this? Had they been forewarned that there would be nudity or were they springing this on them? Crowley was clearly uncomfortable with their chest. Aziraphale hadn’t even gotten to touch it, much less see it, and they had had many very busy kissing sessions— Crowley would say snogging but that’s because Crowley thought being crass to him was funny— and quite a bit of intimate touching. Aziraphale had gotten rather handsy several times, and although they’d enjoyed him getting rather fresh with their bottom they always got nervous about their top. 

_ Nothing had better happen with this crew, like the last time or… or… _ Aziraphale didn’t know what he’d do, what he could do without getting Crowley in trouble, but he’d think of something, surely. 

When Crowley reemerged a while later, in dark makeup and a white bathrobe to stand with other, similarly attired models, he hustled over. 

“Everything alright?” he asked. 

“Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? Fussy mother-hen. Just sit down. Stop hovering,” they said, shoving them off to the side and pressing his shoulders against a wall. “Just… It’s fine. Stay out of the way.  _ Don’t  _ make me look bad.”

He pressed his lips and said nothing as Crowley walked away. Fine, he would stay on the fringes. Crowley shot him a look from time to time, out of the corner of their eye, and he made sure to flash smiles back, disingenuous as they were, which were answered with a subtle lip curl or head waggle. 

When it was finally Crowley’s turn in front of the camera they were in one of the bedrooms, dark and draped with sheer grey fabric but there was no thumping, obnoxious music and the photographer shook Crowley’s hand and greeted them politely. 

“Nice to work with you, Antoinette. If you could hand Jo your robe we’ll get started,” he said, camera in one hand, gesturing with the other as he spoke. His tone was pleasantly professional and worked to smooth Aziraphale’s ruffled feathers. “We’re going to do poses on the bed, starting on the side and then I’ll be going up on the rig to shoot from above. We want tasteful nudity, so try to keep nipples out of the picture.”

Crowley disrobed and Aziraphale’s jaw nearly dropped. They were not half-naked, more like 90% naked. They had a slim pair of black panties,  _ very  _ see-through panty hose, and a pair of fancy black and gold heels. That was it. They stood their, one arm across their chest to cover their nipples, nearly all of their freckled, lovely skin out. Aziraphale scanned the room, noting that most of the people were not staring, instead busy with their various jobs, and was surprised. 

The shoot started, with Crowley perched on the edge of the bed, reaching down as if to unstrap their shoes, one delicate finger hooked into the gold snake cradling their heel before it wrapped down their foot, the gold dripping into a thin stiletto. They looked stunning, and it was so hard not to stare. Aziraphale felt like his jaw was locking up with the effort of maintaining a neutral smile. Their arm was so long and sleek, peppered with little brown kisses up the wrist, elbow, shoulder all the way to their dappled collarbones dipping into shadow, the hint of a curve of breast hidden by their bending. Their hair, which before had just looked big and curly now looked tousled, as if hands had been running through it in passion, bright red framing their sultry mouth, a single curl lying on their cheek. Oh, to brush that strand back, tuck in behind their ear as they looked up at them with those gold-glowing eyes full of lust, to press his mouth to theirs as he pushed them to the mattress and kiss each freckle on their body, one at a time. It would take an eternity, but it would be a marvelous task to worship their body thusly. 

“Right, that’s perfect. Can you make it a little less sultry now and more end-of-shift tired but sexy?”

They shifted, leaning more on their knees, their hair covering more of their face like a weary woman too tired to hold themselves up anymore, but then they peeked out of the curtain of their curls, seeming to beckon him closer with those eyes, just slightly amused and ready. Aziraphale wanted to answer that call so badly he dropped his hands, his pocket square clenched in one fist and he wavered forward a half step. 

But Crowley was not looking at him, they were looking at the camera. Where was this confidence in one’s body when they were alone? Why did Aziraphale inspire reluctance and fear when some strange old man with a camera got… this?

Aziraphale tried not to watch the proceedings too closely as he gathered himself. It was remarkably stupid of him to be jealous of a job, even if that job required baring oneself in intimate ways apparently not reserved for bedfellows, nor even granted them when they were intimate. And it was exceedingly shallow of him to feel slighted, or cheated, or … all of the other shallow and petty feelings he was definitely not having. Crowley had some insecurities and the fact that they could pretend they didn’t for their career didn’t mean the insecurities weren’t there or didn’t deserve respect.  _ He  _ knew better than to call them Antoinette—  _ he  _ knew how much they hated that name. He  _ mattered  _ to Crowley. 

He tried not to look, but the allure of their beauty was so great, and now that the shoot was well in progress, most of the activity had slowed and everyone was just standing around, watching, waiting. Catching glimpses of Crowley’s small breasts while they were changing positions, ogling the curve of their speckled spine. 

When the photographer climbed up on the big black scaffolding thing, hooking himself onto a tether as he leaned over the edge to take pictures of Crowley from above, the tone of the room changed. Most staff were looking at the photographer now, making sure equipment wasn’t dropped, changing the direction of the lighting, or it’s color. Grips were directed to pull the sheer fabric draped about in various ways above Crowley, or across them. And Crowley laid on the bed, shifting, and it all seemed so much less charged. 

Aziraphale supposed that was because the energy of Crowley’s excellent modeling was being pointed, with laser precision, up to the photographer and ceiling. 

The photographer called out, “Excellent!” and the director, from a table with monitors to the side of the room echoed, “Yes, that’s really working. That’s an excellent billboard. Get some more long ones like that, Tim!” Aziraphale looked over, able to see the screens where the picture of Crowley was. They were laying on their belly, turned to peer over their shoulder as they bit their thumb, coy, the soft expanse of their bare back dipping to their half-naked bottom, the line on the back of their hose making their legs only look longer and more perfectly structured. The gold on their shoes practically glowed, one kicked off as if to welcome, ask the viewer “Would you like the rest off too?” Which Aziraphale very much did, very much wanted to grab that arse and kiss it, rub against it. They had such a perfect bottom, so sexy. 

It was a very lovely picture, he had to admit. Even the fabric, which looked like a pair of wings coming from their back, a demon here to tempt him into sin. It cooled the last embers of his anger. Even he could admit that it would make a very lovely ad for those shoes, and the nudity was both tempting yet tasteful. When Crowley finished, covered themselves, and returned to him he didn’t have to force the smile, a fact which Crowley noted. Their own smile softened, growing less generic, though by the tightness near their eyes he knew they were tired and stressed but hiding it well. He doubted anyone else could tell. 

Unfortunately, Crowley had another solo shoot, this time with a purse and bracelets, and then a few group shoots as well. By the time they were finished it was well after dark, with only a light lunch on set of cold sandwiches, which Aziraphale had discreetly pulled the cheese out of before giving them to Crowley. They grumpily managed to saunter and yet slouch the whole way to the car, in the way only they could, and plopped into the passenger’s side, groaning. 

“Yes, that was quite the long day,” he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of putting in your kebab order for delivery to the hotel, and it should arrive only a few minutes after we do, my dear.”

“You are a blessing. A treasure” they said, rubbing their ankles. “I don’t know how I got through all this without you.”

That filled him so full of love Aziraphale thought they might burst. He grabbed Crowley’s hand, tangling their fingers, and kissed their knuckles. They turned— well, flopped their head to the side, looking at him with a limpid, love drenched gaze of their own.

* * *

Crowley’s final photoshoot with Dior was abroad, in the Alps. The Swiss Alps, apparently, which they were going to do all on their own because neither the production nor Tracy were going to pay to fly Aziraphale there, and besides the point, he didn’t have a passport ready anyway. 

It was only four days apart, surely it would pass very quickly and easily. He helped Crowley move out of the hotel and back to their tiny flat, which felt sad in comparison, and even though Aziraphale didn’t say anything, Crowley seemed to be of a similar opinion. 

“It’ll be nice to move,” they said that night, mumbled into Aziraphale’s chest. He hummed in agreement and Crowley snuggled him, rubbing their cheek on his shirt. The next morning he drove them to the airport, giving them a dozen kisses goodbye, telling them to be careful in the airport and to call security if Hastur showed up or tried to abduct them again. Crowley promised to be careful, always sit with their back to a wall in a defensible position, and remember their training. 

It didn’t stop him from worrying, but the regular text messages from Crowley, complaining about other passengers’ outfits, cologne, the food, the length of the leg room compared to their long legs, and finally, the oppressive, deadly, miserable cold in the mountains when it was nearly November were all very soothing.

He slept in the cab in the car park that first night after working at the Commodore, and woke up with a stiff neck and sore back. How he’d managed to sleep in a car every day for so long, he didn’t know. Crowley had left him with the key to their flat, told him he should just use it, and after much wringing of hands finally decided “what could it hurt?” and slept there for his second day apart. 

It was so very lonely. 

He pulled up his phone. 

“I’m in your bed,” he texted, “all by myself. It’s cold and empty. I miss you. I wish I were holding you, but my arms are empty.” He didn’t expect a reply, as late as it was. When he clicked the screen off it left him in the dark, not even the moon gracing him with a bit of light. Just the soft sheets that smelled of Crowley in a room that echoed happier times, a hollow reverberation that beat against his chest. 

The ‘tink’ sounded of a text arriving. Crowley had written, “Yeah?” and then another arrived. “Wish you were here. The room’s so full of wood, you’d love it.”

“Why do you think I like wood?”

“I’ve met you.” Tink. “I bet your dream home is wood floors, wall-to-wall wood shelves full of books, a wing-backed armchair that some old lady died in and a wooden table.”

That painted quite the picture, and Aziraphale chuckled at my screen. “You’re not far off, my dear. Why are you up so late?.”

“Not. Early. Slept weird, can’t go back to sleep. Waiting for 6am wake up call anyway.” There was a long pause, then “Why don’t you hug my pillow?”

“I am afraid that it smells too much like you.”

“Oh, sorry. I’ll launder it when I get back.”

“No, my apologies, that’s not what I meant. I mean that when I close my eyes and smell you, I want you more. I think, oh, if only it were actually your hair I had my face in, with it’s lovely shampoo smell. I love it, but it makes me long.”

“Long, eh? 🍆”

“You are terrible. You know what I meant.”

The phone rang. He picked up. 

“I do,” said Crowley without preamble. “Are you mad?”

“No, nothing of the sort. To be honest, my longings are not purely… pure.”

“Oh really?” they smacked their lips. “Want to tell me a bit more about that?”

“Why?”

“Maybe I want to hear about the sorry state I’ve left you in, hard and longing and in my bed, in my sheets, in the darkness.”

“Oh,  _ I see _ . You saucy thing you.”

Crowley groaned, “You are killing me here Aziraphale. That was not sexy at all.”

“Oh, oh. Oh dear. Sorry… uh. Right…”

“... Nevermind. It was just a thought. We don’t have to—” 

“No! No, please, don’t let me ruin this. I just, um… I feel a bit awkward. I’m a guest here, you know?”

Crowley laughed, loud and barking. “A guest? Aziraphale you’ve been sleeping in that bed for months. It’s as much yours as it is mine.”

“It is?” Heat built on their cheeks, warming their face. 

“Yeah, ‘course. Me casa es su casa or whatever.”

The heat spread, filling his body in a pleasant way. “So you’d like me to get … comfortable. Very comfortable, here?”

“Mmmm. Yeah.”

“Are you comfortable?”

“I’d be more comfortable if you were here. But I’m naked, so that’s at least a start.”

“You are? Why?”

“I sleep that way.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Well, not with you. But otherwise, sure. Easier. Less laundry.”

“Why not with me?”

“It would have been rather awkward at first, and then I just, you know, had a habit.”

“I’d like to sleep naked with you.”

Crowley snorted. “I don’t think we’d get much sleeping done.”

Aziraphale hummed. “I think you are right, my dear. I find it hard enough to contain myself from showing my appreciation in public when you’re nearly naked. I shudder to think how hard it would be if we were in private, much less in bed together while fully nude.”

“Mmmmmm. Yeah.” There was a pause. “I’d like to one day. Be naked together. I’d run my hands all over you. I wish I could touch you.”

“Oh yes, please. I want to feel your hands on me.”

Crowley groaned. “I’m touching myself, imagining it’s you.”

Aziraphale sat up. “Really?”

“Yeah… If you were here, you’d run your hands up the sides of my thighs, grip my hips like you like.”

“I would like that. I’d pull you close to me—”

“ _ Mmmm _ .”

“—and kiss you. Hold you still against the mattress so I could nip your neck. You know how you wriggle.”

They moaned open-mouthed. “Oh, fuck, Aziraphale, you could. You’re so strong.”

“I am.”

“I would love that. Fuck, yes. Are you touching yourself?”

“No, should I be?”

“Yes. Let’s get off together. I miss you too. I miss you so much. I didn’t think I’d miss you this much.”

“That’s exactly how I feel. Oh, Crowley.” He fumbled with his pajamas, finally freeing his hardening length. He stroked himself at a leisurely pace. “When you get back I’m going to kiss you for each second that I’ve missed you.”

“How many is that?”

“More than you have freckles, my dear. It would take days.”

They chuckled. “I’ve only been gone two days.”

“Oh, I know. I thought it would be easy, but it’s not. There’s a hole where you usually are in my life and I want it filled.”

Crowley laughed breathily. “Sexy.”

Aziraphale harrumphed, his hand stilling. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know, I know. Although I always meant to ask if you liked to bottom in your relationships, or what.”

“I’ve always been the bottom in prior relationships, but I suppose I’m vers.”

“Do you like doing that?”

“I do.”

Crowley grew quiet, thoughtful, and Aziraphale laid back down on the bed. 

“We’re not very good at phone sex,” he said, tucking himself back in his pants.

“No,” they said, and he could hear their smile through the phone, “We really are not.”

“That’s okay. I’m glad you called. And this is a good conversation.”

“Talking about your exes while we were trying to get off?”

“We could talk about yours instead.”

“Not really. I only have one.”

That was shocking, completely taking Aziraphale off guard. “Really? I can’t believe that! You’re so gorgeous and impressive, I thought for sure you’d have suitors lining up to take you on dates. I thought surely I was the least experienced one between us.”

“Oh no no no. Nooooooo. Nope. Only dated once and it went... I suppose it went alright but it ended very badly after only a few weeks, and it took a long time for me to recover from it and now… Well, I would never consider dating anyone else who thinks I’m a girl and that rules out almost everyone I meet.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

“So, I was just the first to come along?”

“No! There were other people before you who got it. Just not ones I wanted to spend more time with. Or at least, more time together like that. Like Newt. He’s a good person, and figured it out. Been my work friend for a while now. Never woulda dated him, not even slightly interested.”

That was reassuring. “I’ve been leery about dating for a long time as well.”

“Cause of your flock of kiddos?”

“No, before them even. When I was younger, a teenager, I was an idiot. I did stupid things, dangerous things, put myself in bad situations because I didn’t know better and thought that’s just what you have to put up with for sex, or just what relationships were like. I ‘dated’ a lot. But then I came to my senses and wouldn’t let people treat me like that anymore. My last romantic relationship prospect was when I fancied my best friend, Oscar. He’s the one who originally rented from the Youngs, and offered to be flatmates. After we were living together I decided to confess my attraction but he told me he wasn’t interested, which was hard on me but I accepted it. However, afterwards he stopped being my friend, and then wouldn’t even live with me, and it was very hurtful. It felt like the world was punishing me for past misdeeds, that I was just truly an unlovable person so I… well I just couldn’t be heartbroken again, and disavowed dating altogether. Then I took in Pepper and the rest, and that killed the last bit of time and privacy I’d have had for it.”

“That was a long time ago. What, four years?”

“Thereabouts.”

“Mmmm. About five for me.”

“Goodness. A pair of old spinsters, us.”

They laughed, soft and sibilant. “As long as we’re a pair of something.”

“Indeed.”

“... When I get back, I’m going house hunting.”

“I was there when you talked to Madame Tracy about it, you know.”

“Right. Well. I, uh, I want you to come with me.”

“Of course. I am still your bodyguard. It wouldn’t do to have you out and about on your own.”

“No, I mean, yes, obviously. But I mean… I want you to… You remember her whole thing about buying a dream home, then, yes?”

“Yes. I think she’s right and you should.”

“Yeah, yeah. I thought about it and I agree. I should look for a dream home.”

“Good.”

“Right. But t-t-to me, that… I know this might be a bit fast and I don’t want to go too fast for you but I, um,” they swallowed so hard he could hear it through the phone. “I want… You to… be there. That’s my dream home.”

Not quite certain what Crowley was saying, he said, “Me to be there?”

“Like, live there?” Crowley said, so timidly it sounded like they weren’t even sure what they were saying anymore. 

“You want us to live together?” Aziraphale repeated, somewhat dumbly. Crowley was asking him if he wanted to live together, to move in with them. Someone  _ else  _ was asking  _ him  _ if they could have more, not the other way round this time. Crowley said _ their dream home _ was one with  _ Aziraphale  _ in it. His eyes prickled with happy, unshed tears.

“If you’d like?” they said, and then like the floodgates were unlocked, continued in a rush, “I like sharing our bed and sleeping with you and I miss you when you’re gone and I think it would be good for you because you wouldn’t have to sleep in your car anymore and you can unpack, I would make sure we had plenty of bookshelves for all your books and you could have your own closet and you could have your own room even if you thought we were moving too fast. I have enough we could even have rooms for your kids if you wanted to though I don’t know if you’d want to but I could get something really big for you because you clearly like having a big family and I can do that I can get something like that—”

“Crowley,” he interjected, and they stopped talking. “That was a lot of things that you just said, and I’m not sure I’ve had time to process it all. I’m going to need time to think about it—”

“Yeah, ‘course, yup yup yup, time. Tii~me. Right. Right.”

“I’m not turning you down. I am very touched that you’ve offered. It means a lot to me. More than you know. But, as I think you’ve realized, it is a bit complicated, especially with my wards. So I think we’d best discuss this when you get back so that we can talk in more detail. This isn’t a decision to be made lightly in the middle of the night and without consulting the kids. They’re old enough they should get a say in where they live, especially considering their housing instability in the past.”

Crowley mumbled a few half-hearted yeah’s. Aziraphale couldn’t have that, couldn’t leave them with the wrong impression they were being turned down. 

“But I must say, thank you. Thank you very much for thinking of me, and wanting me, and wanting to make room for me in your life. That means a lot and I want you to know that I want that. I want you in my life too. I want to make space for you, for us. So that when your problems are over and you don’t need a bodyguard anymore we’ll still have plenty of time and involvement.”

When Crowley spoke again, they sounded very choked up. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Good. Speaking of unpleasant matters, have you seen Hastur or had any worrisome experiences today?” 

“No, nothing. Been a breeze. And I’m following your rules for staying safe. Not going out alone and sticking to walls and whatnot, promise. Anything there?”

“Nothing really. No letters or envelopes or visits that I know of. I was followed by a black car, though, I think.”

“You  _ what _ ?!”

“I wasn’t paying attention so it might have been different cars. I just was going back for dinner and thought, oh, that car has been there for a while now. And they went into the neighborhood with me but kept driving when I pulled into the alleyway.”

“What kind of car was it? Was it an Audi A5?” 

“I don’t know. It was black. I’m not good with cars.”

Crowley growled. “Fucking stalker.”

He hummed his agreement. “I’m not concerned. If he’s following me then he’s leaving you be. And I can take care of him if he tries anything.”

“Mm. I’d pay to see that.”

“Well, I’ll be spending all of tomorrow with the kids, as usual, so I’ll try to keep on better look out.”

“Yeah. Let me know if anything happens.”

“I will.”

“I should probably let you go. Get some sleep.”

“You sure? I can keep you company if you need.”

“Nah. M’fine. Goodnight, angel.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The photoshoot in this chapter was inspired by [yet another gorgeous art by Ellie Mars.](https://www.instagram.com/p/CE0UbYRFcBy/) Many thanks to my betas slateblueflowers and itsthekiks! 
> 
> I kept thinking I should warn in the beginning notes for bad sex or failed sex but then I'm like, no, it's not those things, but also it is. So instead I'm like, Dear readers, look at this quote that's going around Tumblr that's like, the whole point of this long-fic. 
> 
> “People think intimacy is about sex. But intimacy is about truth. When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them bare and their response is ‘You’re safe with me’ - that’s intimacy.” — Taylor Jenkins Reid. 
> 
> Just as a heads up to my readers: Although I still have ? as the total number of chapters, there are 5 or so chapters left, according to the behind-the-scenes calculus. I often change where chapter breaks are in my outline based on how many words scenes ended up and am never quite sure till I'm done where it all falls out, so I'm not gonna change that ? till I'm sure. On that note, next chapter will be delayed because I'm just gonna be real busy this week with work and a house inspection.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter - there is a mention of genital mutilation. (it doesn’t happen to anyone and it’s not a graphic mention, nothing “on-screen” but it's talked about by the characters in a dialogue.)

Winter was lurking about the edges of the park, the frost kissed mornings turning to steam in the afternoon sun. Aziraphale loved it, loved the slight sting of chill with each breath, the need for a warm scarf and all the layers he preferred to wear, but he was a bit worried for Crowley, whose hands were jammed in their pockets, shoulders up and hunched as they walked. 

"Are you sure you're dressed appropriately, my dear?"

"I am _ always _ dressed appropriately. How dare you," they replied with a scoff. 

Aziraphale chuckled. "I meant for the weather. You look cold."

Crowley shrugged, mumbling a garbled string of syllables. Aziraphale sighed. That meant they were cold but were unwilling to admit it. There was an empty bench ahead, so he made a beeline for it. Crowley launched themselves down into their customary sprawl. Before joining them, Aziraphale unwound his scarf and wrapped it around their naked neck. They froze, eyes wide behind those sunglasses, so he smiled and finished bundling them up with a kiss to the forehead. 

Their ears pinkened and they turned away, mumbling something about running their image as he sat beside them, pleased. 

"Oh, don't look so smug," they said. 

"Perhaps I just like it when you wear my things."

"Yeah? Should I walk around in just your shirt after the next time we fool around?"

Aziraphale shivered, "Oh goodness, yes. Please do." They had escalated their intimacies recently, and although Crowley still wouldn’t let him touch them, or see what was in their underwear, they’d both gone and gotten tested together so that he would finally agree to let them use their mouth. Which was delightful. They had a very talented tongue. Which was very on his mind as Crowley grinned, their teeth sharp against their lip. 

"I'll keep that in mind,” they said. “You do like to leave marks, I should have known you were possessive."

The sexy memories fizzled, and he fidgeted, running his hands along the edges of his waistcoat, futzing with the buttons self consciously. "I'm sorry. I know I've caused you some embarrassment at work, and I shouldn’t be—" 

"No no no, no apology needed. I like it."

"Truly?"

"Mmmm," they said, nodding. “Don’t mind making the make-up artists do a bit of extra work here and there. Like being claimed.”

"Oh." Aziraphale looked into the distance, where a swan was waddling around. "W-well then, since we're on the topic, I was hoping you might be interested in, ah, well, might accept a token of…" it was hard to find the right words, so he fished out the tartan handkerchief he kept on him for this purpose. "I know I've mentioned that this is my personal tartan."

"Yeah. You had it commissioned, for you and your family."

"Precisely. And all the members of my family have something in it that they can carry with them or wear, as well as a few household items. Pepper has it as the lining in her backpack. Wensleydale has a bowtie and lunchbox. Brian has it on a pair of shoes and I use it in my bowtie, of course."

He flicked his eyes up, glancing at the frown on Crowley's face before returning to staring vacantly in the distance. "It means a lot to me, symbolically, to have something like this. Family means a lot to me."

"I know," Crowley said, gently. 

He hesitated. "Which is why I want to… I'm hoping that you would accept… that you would want…" he trailed off, terribly uncertain at how to explain the weight this carried for him in words, and instead of trying just held out the neatly folded cloth, offering it to Crowley. 

They looked down at it, eyebrows up and touching, and then back at Aziraphale. "For me?"

"If you'd like it. I've been thinking on what you'd like made out of it so I could commission it but I'm afraid I was never certain of how… of... if you'd think it wasn't stylish enough or if you'd even want it. You're very particular about—" A tear ran out from behind their sunglasses " — Oh, oh no! I've upset you, I'm so sorry." He started to pull back, but Crowley grabbed his hand with their shaking one. 

"No." They wiped the year away with their other hand. "No, I want it. If that's alright." 

Aziraphale nodded. Of course it was. Crowley took the proffered cloth, holding it with both hands in their lap, rubbing it gently with their thumbs. 

" 'M family?" and their voice cracked on the A. 

"You are to me. If you want to be."

"I do." 

Relieved, golden heat bloomed in his chest. "Good. You think about what else you'd like to have and we'll get it made. I have quite a lot of fabric left, so whatever you'd like. You deserve something bespoke, something just for you. More than just a hanky."

"Al--alright."

They sat in silence, Crowley dabbing under their sunglasses a few times before tucking it in their pocket and grabbing his hand. The point of contact was thrilling and grounding at the same time. His heart soared, riding high off all the love while his mind could think of nothing but the intertwining of their fingers together. 

"Thank you," they said.

"No thanks needed."

They grunted. That was so like them, grumpy and understated. He chuckled. 

"I love you," Aziraphale said.

Crowley stiffened, shifting slightly away. Not the reaction he expected. Their hand became leaden and after an awkward moment he released it. It was immediately tucked back into their pockets. He didn't understand what was happening and placed his own hands on his belly, twiddling his thumbs. At first he was just surprised, confused. But as the silence stretched out and Crowley continued to look uncomfortable, it started to hurt, the rejection.

He supposed he overstepped, putting too much on Crowley all at once. He hadn't said it, before. It had just been an impulse, one he'd repressed before, and thought it would be okay to give in this time. Clearly, that had been a mistake. Maybe it made the context of accepting his tartan more clear, and now Crowley was regretting accepting it. Maybe this had all been too much, too serious. That thought hurt the most.

Crowley’s leg started bouncing until they couldn’t seem to contain themselves, and they got up to start walking away. Heartbroken and confused, Aziraphale rushed to follow.

* * *

"Are you sure you still want to?" Aziraphale asked them, not making eye contact and twisting his buttons. Crowley was on edge, jumpy, ready for whatever horrible thing he was going to do, but so far he was just being annoying. And weird. They’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop since their walk in the park and it was hard to wait. It strained them. 

"Yes, I said so, didn't I?" they replied, tense and uneasy. "Unless you think it's a bad idea. You don't want this. It's too fast, and you're just trying to spare my feelings, aren't you?"

"No! No, of course not my dear. I'm perfectly happy to formalize our cohabitation into something more."

"So you think the kids'll hate it?"

"No. I don't think they'll hate it."

"They're not gonna go f'rit."

He pressed his lips into a line. "I don't know. It's complicated. I truly couldn't say, which is why I thought it best that you ask them."

"Yeah, but now you're acting like I shouldn't."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are! All dodgy and questioning. You're acting like you're having second thoughts at the last minute. We're supposed to be heading out right now to go ask them and you're tryna tell me not to."

"Stop being so dramatic. I am not. I'm just… just concerned—" 

"Concerned! See, you think this is a bad idea."

"Don't interrupt me! I'm concerned that you seem so upset. I just want to make sure you're ready and want this. Even more so now that you keep saying it's a bad idea."

"You think that, not me!"

"I don't! Don't tell me what I think. I know my own mind, Crowley."

"Fine! Fine! Everything is peachy keen!"

Aziraphale glared, silently but reproachfully out of the corner of his eye as he made their bed, smoothing the sheets a bit more than was strictly necessary. Crowley knew there was something wrong. There had been since earlier, in the park. Something bad was happening, or was going to happen. They crammed their hands in their tight pants pockets, grabbing the tartan— Aziraphale's tartan, that said they were family now— and started pacing. 

It was fine, right? Everything was fine. They would go to family dinner and talk to the kids and they would say yes or no and then they'd be done with it. Aziraphale had already given them the tartan. He wasn't going to take it back if everything went wrong, was he?

He wouldn't dump them if the kids didn't want to move in. Right? 

Something bad was going to happen, they knew it -- they just didn't know what. But that was fine. They just had to hurry up and get it over with. 

Aziraphale finished making the bed, so they said, "Good, great, all ready, yes? Okay, let's go." 

"There's no hurry. We're on time."

Crowley grumbled. The ride to the Young's house was quiet and a bit strained. They made nice once they arrived, chit chatting with the flock of youths about carpentry, of all things. Apparently Brain was developing more than a passing interest. Their foot bounced, but that was under the table, where no one would see it. Just like all their turbulence— inside, buried. They surreptitiously tried to dry their palms on their jeans. No one else would know they felt like they were being lined up in front of a firing squad when Aziraphale cleared his throat and gathered everyone's attention. 

Once all eyes were on him he said, "I'd like to talk while we're all here together about our living situation. As I'm sure we're all aware, things are a bit tight, and quarters are close. And I have a bit of news regarding that… "

Crowley bit their lip just at the back, so it wouldn't be obvious, waiting for Aziraphale to deliver the news. But he didn't, the bastard turned to them, waiting. 

_ Fuck.  _

"I'm buying a house," they blurted out. There were some blinks around the table. Adam picked up his chicken drumstick and took a bite, eyebrows raised. "Uh. And I invited Aziraphale to live in it." 

"Wait, so you're leaving us?” Pepper blurted out. The other children reacted more to that than what Crowley had said, shock and anger all around the table. Pepper herself was furious. “How dare you!”

"No, of course not!” Aziraphale snapped back. “That's why I wanted to talk to all of you about this. I told them it wasn't my decision. We're a family, and we make important decisions together. As a family." 

Pepper grumbled, crossing her arms and hunching back. 

"I don't want you to leave us," said Wensleydale sadly. 

"Then I wouldn't leave you, my dear."

"How would it work? Would we all move? Is there even room?" said Warlock. 

"Dunno. How much room do you need?" said Crowley. 

"How far away is it?" said Adam. "Would I still get to see everyone?" 

That earned a sympathetic pat on the back by his mother. 

"Dunno," said Crowley.

"Why not?" demanded Pepper. "Adam's one of us. He gets a say."

Crowley held their hands up. "Just haven't picked out a house yet. Don't know what Aziraphale wants. What you lot need. Who even would live there, other than me. Wasn't gonna look till we did." 

"Oh," she said. "That's fine then."

The room was still, and serious, everyone staring at their plates, or darting looks around at each other. 

"Right. Well," said Aziraphale. "This is how I see it. We don't all fit here, size wise, as things are. We've made this work anyway, and I'm perfectly willing to keep things as we are, if that's what you all want. Things will change soon enough. Brian's birthday is in two weeks, and you're all a few years from uni or getting a job placement, and that's not long at all, in the grand scheme of things. We can manage until then as we have been, if that's what we decide. Or if you want a change, we can talk about making one that would suit us, that we can all be okay with. There's no hurry. Plenty of time for everyone to mull, to size up their feelings." 

"Well, I don't need time. I want you to move in with Crowley," said Warlock. "I hate how much you've given up because of me." 

Aziraphale was visibly taken aback. "That's nothing you need to feel bad about. It was my choice. I was happy to give you the space. You don't need to concern yourself with me. I'm fine."

"Yeah, right. I'm not  _ stupid _ . I've seen how tired you are. I've seen you sleeping in the cab in the alley. I know it's because of me. I know how hard it's been for you. Because of me, because I'm here. I've seen all the sacrifices you had to make. And you shouldn't have to. You've been doing better since you started sleeping at Crowley’s. So if no one else wants to leave, fine, then I will." She slammed her fork down, balled up her napkin, threw it in her vacated chair and stormed out of the room, leaving Aziraphale speechless. 

"Whoah," said Wensleydale. 

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale, watching the doorway Warlock had run through with watery eyes. 

_ Fuck. I'm a fucking homewrecker,  _ thought Crowley.  _ I ruin everything I touch.  _ Ligur's voice rose up from his memories, "You're gutter scum like the rest of us, and you're lucky we took in such trash. No one else would have. Not a fucked up twig like you. You better be grateful we haven't shown you the door."

"Aziraphale," Deidre said softly. "She's just upset. She likes it here. I don't think she'll actually run away again." 

"I fear what would happen if she did. She can be impulsive. Oh, what if she did?" 

"I'll keep an eye on her," said Wensleydale. 

"Me too," said Pepper. 

"We all will," added Adam, as Brian nodded along. "She's one of us, and we take care of our own." 

Arthur smiled at his son. "That's right. We all just need some time to think. Get some perspective. And I, for one, am happy for you, Aziraphale. You deserve good things." 

"Thank you, Arthur." Crowley didn't think Aziraphale’s heart was in his response.

Wensleydale stood, holding their plate. "I'm going to finish my dinner downstairs with Warlock."

"Thank you, dear," said Aziraphale. Those still at the table resumed eating at various paces, except Aziraphale and Crowley. 

_ This was a bad idea. I'm ruining their family. Should I go? I shouldn't be here.  _ They pulled the handkerchief out of their pocket, and looked at it in their lap.  _ I should give this back and go.  _

The movement caught Aziraphale's eye and he turned, saw what was in their lap, and smiled at them, of all things. He took their hand, tartan and all, squeezing it. 

"It'll be alright. You remember what it was like to be that age. Every feeling was so... big. So many crises. I just need to make sure everyone feels safe and secure and knows that I'll listen to them. So I'll give her some space and then go check in." 

"Right. I should leave you to it. I've done enough." 

Aziraphale's grip tightened till it was nearly painful, crushing their thinner fingers in his grip. They looked up to find Aziraphale's eyes drilling into his, strong and unwavering. 

"You have done nothing wrong."

Crowley swallowed, let themselves be pinned by his gaze. It quieted them, stilling their thoughts. They licked their lips and swallowed again. Aziraphale’s face changed, grew warmer, a glow filling the creases around those now-hazel eyes. Seeing it made them feel like they were drinking it, soaking the golden heat into their body, letting it fill their chest and bathe their heart. It was soothing, making that unnamable feeling flood them.

"We'll get through this. Together," Aziraphale said firmly. Crowley nodded, and with a final squeeze Aziraphale let go of their hand. They put their handkerchief back in their pocket. 

The rest of dinner wrapped up, with everyone quietly lost in their own thoughts, then leaving as they finished. Crowley, their stomach turned to brick, didn't eat much of anything. The teens cleaned their plates first, followed by the Youngs. Adam and Pepper were on clean up duty, and when Crowley admitted they weren't going to be able to eat anymore, set about breaking down and clearing dinner up. 

"Sure I shouldn’t go?" they asked. 

"Not alone you won't. I haven't spent the last nine months keeping you safe to let you wander off into the night now," Aziraphale said, prim and final. "Now come on, my dear. They're teenagers, not monsters." 

"Speak for yourself," they mumbled as they trailed behind the man downstairs. 

Sitting on the couch, wrapped in a tartan quilt, was Warlock. Wensleydale sat beside her. 

"Hello there. How are we doing?" said Aziraphale. 

Warlock pouted, jutting her bottom lip out. 

"I see." Aziraphale sat in the adjacent armchair. Crowley perched on the arm of it, trying to look casual. There was a silence as Aziraphale waited, hands folded in his lap, and then Warlock started talking.

"I don't like it."

"That's very kind of you, my dear. I appreciate your caring," said Aziraphale matter-of-factly. 

She blinked, brow wrinkled in confusion. "You're not mad?"

"No, of course not. Why would I be angry that you are trying to do something nice for me?"

Warlock looked dissatisfied. "I yelled and stormed out!"

"Yes, and that was a poor way of going about it. Which you clearly know already. No need to belabor the point." 

She grumbled, and Wensleydale smiled at her. "Told you," he said. She rolled her eyes. 

"Is it just for me? That you want me to move. Do you still want to be here, with us? You know your parents have been asking to take you back," said Aziraphale.

"I don't want to go back there. They don't actually care, they just don't like how it looks that I'm gone.  _ Optics,"  _ she sneered on the last bit. 

Crowley snorted, "Fucking optics." 

"Yeah. Fuck optics," she said. Aziraphale leveled a  _ look _ at them, clearly unhappy with the cursing, which they shrugged off. 

"Warlock," Aziraphale prompted. 

"I don’t want to live with my parents ever again. I like Crowley. They're cool. I like the idea of living with them. It's cramped here."

"That's fair," said Wensleydale. 

"It is," said Aziraphale. 

"Everyone else is gonna be mad at me for breaking up the Them," said Warlock.

"No, we won't," said Wensleydale. "Because we won't break up if we don't want to. Actually, even if we were living apart, that doesn't mean we have broken up. And if your parents want to reconcile, maybe it isn't just because of how it looks."

"But also, you don't owe them forgiveness or another chance," said Crowley. "Sometimes people show you who they are and you should believe them."

"I don't even like that you're talking to my parents at all," Warlock said to Aziraphale.

"I am afraid that it's what's best, legally," said Aziraphale. "They won't relinquish guardianship, and we'd rather not have to go to court. I don't think that would go well. Since you're still in school and excelling, they're telling people that you're at a boarding school. That covers the optics of it all, so I don't think that’s their primary motivation. I think that they want to have a relationship with you. Your mother, especially, seems genuine. The ambassador is a bit harder to read."

"The ambassador?" Crowley choked. The kid was important?

"Yeah. My dad's the American ambassador to the UK," said Warlock. Crowley boggled, glad for the screen of their sunglasses.

"It quite complicates being her caregiver, what with her lack of citizenship. But luckily I've convinced her parents that she is safe and well here. I don't think I would have managed if I didn't have a few friends in the PaDP who vouched for my capabilities."

"Bloody hell," Crowley swore. Aziraphale really was too good for the likes of them. Next he was going to find out he had friends in the blood MI6, too, to go with his constable and defense force and now the diplomatic protective services. "And it's fine if she moves with us? I don't want to cause an international incident over housing."

"It's fine. Since Warlock wants to live where I live, I don't think her parents will quibble about the address. They treat me akin to her nanny and personal bodyguard." 

"I don't know if I want to move. I like living with Adam and his parents," said Wensleydale. "I like big family dinners. But if it wasn't very far, we could still do dinners together, right?" 

"That's true," said Aziraphale. 

"Well then I wouldn't mind moving as long as I could walk back here," said Wensleydale.

"You wouldn't?" said Warlock. 

Wensleydale shook his head. "Pepper's not gonna want to though. She'll want to stay."

Aziraphale nodded. "Yes, her and Adam are thick as thieves. Did Brian say anything?"

"Nope," said Wensleydale. "But he's in our room."

"Then I presume he wishes some time alone," said Aziraphale. "I shan't intrude." 

When Pepper came down Aziraphale asked if she had any clear thoughts, to which she replied, "I'm  _ not  _ moving."

Aziraphale and Wensleydale traded knowing looks. Warlock looked upset. Pepper offered to play video games together, and the rest took her up on the peace offering. Crowley, unwilling to be beaten by literal children, declined to join in. Brian came out after an hour or so, and the mood lightened. Before they left for the night, Aziraphale asked if he had any thoughts to share. 

"I don't know. I don't want to leave Adam. I like living here. But I don't know. Maybe," he said. Aziraphale thanked him, gave everyone a hug, and they all hugged Crowley too, then they left. 

* * *

They had gone out for a late lunch, sushi, Aziraphale’s choice, after a morning of appointments around town. Mainly doing “go sees,” a butchering of proper English that he loathed using, but was the industry term for when someone went and saw a designer at their workshop. It was still early, and they were leisurely walking back to Crowley’s when they stopped, gaping, staring into a restaurant window. 

Aziraphale followed their gaze just in time to see Anathema lean across a small table in the French bistro and kiss Newt right on his mouth. 

“Holy Hell!” said Crowley.

“Indeed. That looks quite passionate,” he replied. There may have been tongue involvement at this point. They broke, but only because of the approach of their waiter with their entrees. 

“I just caught my boss snogging in public,” Crowley said with a chuckle, moving on. Aziraphale hopped a few steps to catch up. They were grinning now. “Oh, I knew those two were more than just colleagues. Newt, you lucky dog you. I should text him. I should taunt him.”

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport! It’s lovely that they’re happy. They’re cute together. It’s sweet.”

Crowley snorted. “I get all the credit for this.”

“Of course, my dear,” he patronized. 

The rest of their walk home was uneventful, and pleasantly long, but when they arrived at the fourth floor there was a strange woman leaning against Crowley’s door. Checking, Crowley looked just as confused, so he stepped in front of them and spoke up. 

“Can I help you with something, ma’am? Are you lost?”

“Nope. I’m here for her,” she said, pointing at Crowley. She smiled, and it felt threatening, her front teeth crowned in silver. She was a plain looking woman, with a long nose and red hair, wearing a thick winter coat that looked shabby. 

“I’m not interested in whatever you're selling,” said Crowley. “So how about you scram.”

“Ant, don’t be like that.” At the name, they stiffened. “I’m here on behalf of your father.” 

Their shoulders tensed, creeping towards their ears. Aziraphale took a more aggressive guarding stance, ready for anything. “Then you can doubly-fuck off. I don’t know what those stalking, kidnapping fucks told you, but I want nothing to do with them ever again.”

“Yeah, and I don’t know where you’re getting your info from, but they never stalked or kidnapped no one. And you have half your wish already, because Ligur is dead.”

“He… What?” Crowley staggered a half step back. Aziraphale put a steadying hand on his shoulder, the poor boy.

“And if you’d ever answer your fucking door or your mail you’d know that already,” she yelled. 

“Ma’am, if you would please lower your voice?” said Aziraphale. “I’d prefer we not have the authorities called on us.”

She crossed her arms. 

“Uh. Let’s… Let’s go inside,” said Crowley, gesturing at their door. Aziraphale made a “you sure?” face and they nodded. He supposed this wasn’t much of a conversation one wanted to have in a public place, especially considering how much yelling seemed to be involved. The woman stepped aside so Aziraphale unlocked the door, holding it open for her, keeping his body between her and Crowley. She took one look around the flat, scoffed, and sat on the only chair, the throne at their desk. Crowley moved to the middle of the room, glaring through their sunglasses. Aziraphale took up a post by the door, at the ready. 

“How’d he die then?” Crowley said, breaking the silence.

“Drowned.”

“How? He knew better than to go on water. Everyone knew he couldn’t swim.”

“Yeah, they did. Which is probably why they pushed him out of a boat.”

“They who?”

“Don’t play stupid. You know who. His bosses.”

Crowley grunted. “Finally got on their bad side, then.”

“Yup.”

“When?”

“Last year.”

“ _ Last year?” _

“Yeah, well, it’s not like Hastur wasn’t busy with his own problems. Had to get outta the business. Figure out a bunch of stuff. Live. He ran back to his real family, which is why I’m here.”

Crowley cocked their head, squinting at her. “What family?” They had never mentioned any family other than their fathers, so Aziraphale mirrored their confusion. 

“Me. Our mum. Da. You.” 

“And who are you?”

“Name’s Dagon. I’m Hastur’s sister. And your mother.”

Crowley dropped their arms, “My  _ what?” _

“Birth mother, then. My brother took you in when I went to hospital. Overdose. Everyone decided it was for the best to keep that arrangement. Surprised when he cut ties with us and disappeared. He always said he never wanted kids, but apparently he changed his mind. Said he fell in love with you, but never did a good job showing it. I would have liked to have seen you before this, but that’s more between him ‘n me, innit.”

Crowley was knocked off balance so hard they physically staggered back, bumping into the bed. Aziraphale wanted to go to them, to hug them and support them, but they just fell on the bed and mumbled, “They always told me I was an orphan they’d adopted.”

She laughed, dug around in her purse, pulled out a cigarette and put it between her lips. “Girl, what kind of fool fucking adoption agency would give those shady fucks a fresh baby? A pair of  _ gays  _ nonetheless, in the  _ nineties _ ?”

Crowley grumbled something, waggling their head in acknowledgement. They stared off to the side, lost in their own internal conflicts, which Aziraphale wished he was privy to. 

“So can I light this or what?”

“We’d prefer you didn’t,” Aziraphale answered for them, tersely. 

Her eyes flickered over to him, as if to assess if she needed to listen to what he’d said, then sighed, loud and deep, rolled her eyes, and crammed the cigarette back in the pack. “Not going easy on me, won’t even let me calm my nerves. Not like this is a walk in the park for me. Seeing my only daughter for the first time since she was using nappies.”

“What do you want?” snapped Crowley.

“I told you, I’m here on behalf of Hastur. He wants to reconcile. Trying to reconnect with his family. Make amends.”

“Well, he can fuck off.”

“Seriously? You that much a heartless bitch?”

Crowley’s face snapped up, focused right on her. “You don’t get to talk to me like that. Not some junkie I’ve never met before today who abandoned her kid to those monsters.  _ You  _ don’t get to judge me.”

“I know you’re living in a slum no better than the rest of us, your fancy career as a glorified mannequin aside. And I know Hastur loves you, in his own way. I’m certain he fucked up. A lot. But you should give him a chance. He’s changed.”

“Fucked up?  _ Fucked up?  _ Oh, you have no idea.” They grew heated, anger boiling over. They started pacing on the far side of the room. “What the hell did he tell you? That I just got greedy? That I ran off with his money? That I was an ungrateful bitch who didn’t know he was just trying to help?”

It was her turn to concede a point with a wobbly nod, but she tapped the desk in front of her. “A bit, yeah. I took it with a grain of salt. He told me that you had a lot of arguments, at the end, and he was probably in the wrong through a lot of them. He told me you resisted things that would have furthered your career, and you ran away because you didn’t want to be managed by them anymore,”

“Oh is  _ that _ what he told you? That’s a load of horse shit, that lying sack of fetid rot.” Crowley was the one yelling now. “It wasn’t some little fucking disagreement over work. I’m not some fucking prima donna who bucked their handler. They tried to smuggle me out of the country so they could have me fucking  _ mutilated _ . ” 

“What are you talking about? You ran away before a vacation to Egypt to see the monuments, not some—”

“That’s just his  _ fucking  _ cover story. I found all their paperwork, heard them on their stealth fucking  _ phone calls _ . They set up an appointment with a fucking back alley circumciser, and were flying me out there for  _ that _ . Because they thought  _ mutilating me  _ was the thing that would make me a good little girl. And they covered it up by saying it was necessary, that it was what’s best for my career prospects,” Crowley said viciously, hissing in anger and vehemence. Aziraphale had never seen them so angry, so disgusted. He himself was finding these revelations alarming. He clenched his own fists behind him, maintaining a facade of calm in his parade rest stance, but inside seething. 

He hadn’t known that he could hate someone he’d never met, but he was coming very close to hating Crowley’s fathers. 

“Are you high? You’re making this into some big drama when you just needed a corrective surgery—”

“I don’t need surgery to be correct! I’m fucking fine as I am. And no, they were flying me out because no British doctor worth their salt would cut off a teenager’s clit without their consent, which I emphatically  _ won’t  _ give, but they’ll do it abroad. And they may call it a reconstructive surgery when it’s here but it’s the same fucking thing. So you know what? Fuck you. Fuck Hastur, fuck his reconciliation, fuck you for believing him, for defending him. Now get the fuck  _ out of my house _ ,” they bellowed, pointing at the door. Aziraphale opened it, a standing invitation to leave, taking deep breaths through his nose to try and remain composed. 

“Fine,” Dagon said, standing. She slapped a piece of paper down on the desk. “Here is my address. Hastur’s been living with me this year, probably for the foreseeable future. You ever in Swindon, look us up. Hastur stopped trying months ago, but I thought I’d give you one last shot.” As she passed Aziraphale he caught her arm.

“What do you mean he stopped trying?”

“He came by a few times, looked you up. Tried to leave you a few notes, rang a few times when he knew you were home, but you never answered him, or replied to his letters. He’s out of a job, you know? Doesn’t have enough money to wait forever, so he got on the bus home.”

“Bus?” said Crowley. 

“Yeah, what, you expect he’d walk?”

“Doesn’t he have a car? An Audi a5?”

She snorted. “No. He can’t drive, never could. Ligur’s the one could drive. And the stupid fuck got robbed when they killed Ligur, and lost everything else he had left when he went on the lam. Barely has enough to help pay the bills anymore.”

Aziraphale dropped her arm and she gave him another once over, assessing, before she exited. He closed the door, careful not to slam it like he’d like, locking it behind her. 

“Hastur’s not my stalker,” Crowley said, dumbfounded. 

“It appears not,” Aziraphale said. 

“ _ Fuck _ .” They flopped backwards, falling spread eagle on the bed, the picture of being bowled over by the recent revelations. 

“Indeed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right! That was a chapter I was excited to write, and have been looking forward to Dagon’s arrival for a while now. I love writing foul-mouthed demons, human or no, and once I saw[ pics of Dagon's actor out of makeup I was like, OH OH OH I can see a potential resemblance there!](https://www.google.com/search?q=Elizabeth+Berrington) and was excited to get to these reveals.
> 
> On a personal note, GOOD LORD, could life be less eventful? The curse of living in interesting times is upon us. Similarly, even though I know the end-of-story notes are right below this, promising weekly updates, I'm not sure when updates will happen during these last 2020 weeks. Life, yo! But In good news, This writer's got a new house! That needs work. Busy busy.


	18. Chapter 18

In the screaming, pulsating silence left filling the room after the door closed behind Dagon, Crowley stared at their white plaster ceiling and tried to decide what,  _ the fuck, _ they were supposed to do now. Aziraphale had not said a word since the earlier realization that their stalker was still unknown, out there, and a danger. He was just hovering by the door, unmoving. He hadn’t even taken his shoes off or taken a step further inside. 

Maybe he was processing the metric fuck ton of shocking news, as Crowley was, but that was a horrifying prospect. Crowley was certainly processing it, in that it was boiling their brain. The accompanying fear and anxiety about what it all meant and how Aziraphale was going to react to it was choking them. 

Their dad was dead and their father on the run. They had a bunch of family they'd never even heard of who suddenly wanted to know them. Fucking Hastur wanted to ‘reconnect.’ Their father was actually their uncle. Hastur wasn’t their stalker, who was still out there. But as boggling as all of that was, it was but a blip on the radar compared to the terror accumulating behind their sternum that they had just yelled about their genitals, their carefully obscured, not talked about, heretofore mysterious genitals,  _ right in front of their boyfriend’s face. _

He knew. He had to have figured it out. They’d screamed it loud enough, there was no way he didn’t know. Was he just disgusted? Was this the quiet recoiling of a gay man who though vaginas were icky and fucked up ones even worse? Was this the beginning of a slow fade, where he’d withdraw bit by bit until he was gone from their life? 

_ Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck _ . 

“Uh,” they said, sagely, wisely, immediately commanding respect. 

_ Fuck _ . 

It did seem to break some of the tension, as Aziraphale began moving again. He took his shoes off, setting them precisely where he usually did and pulled out his phone, tapping away. 

“What’re you, uh,” they said, fumbling for how to encompass the huge variety of horrible scenarios they were envisioning. “... doing? Texting?”

“I’m letting the kids and the Youngs know I won’t be able to make it home in time for dinner tonight,” Aziraphale replied, distracted, automatic. 

“Oh? Why not?”

That got his attention, as his head whipped up, one eyebrow raised, his expression screaming, ’Are you  _ bloody daft _ ?’ Out loud he spoke firmly, but kindly, “Crowley. I’m not leaving you alone after all that. And I’m not dragging you with me to go see a bunch of indelicate teens who’ll fuss over you either. You need time.”

“For what?”

“To grieve I presume. And to have whatever other feelings you’re going to have about… all that.”

“Why would I be grieving?”

“Because your parent, no matter how bad a parent he was, is dead. I’m not precisely expecting weeping and hair pulling, mind you, but some amount of strange and unpleasant emotions are certainly due.” 

“Yeah but… he’s been dead to me for so many years now.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, putting his phone away and coming to sit on the edge of the bed with them. “But now he’s dead to everyone. All the way dead. One of the men who raised you and fed you and failed you won’t do anything ever again because he’s dead.”

Tears prickled at their eyes. “Yeah. ‘Spose so.” Why was he getting upset? Ligur was awful and they were better off without him. “Why should I care?”

“Because that means he’ll never be anything else, never have the opportunity to make up for all the things he did to you. And I’d expect, now that your remaining parent is asking for that chance, for you to realize that and grieve it’s loss, at least.”

Tears were leaking now, sliding down the sides of his face, making their temples damp in the awkward way it did when one was crying while flat on their back. They flopped sideways, scrubbing their face. “I still say fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em both. Dead or alive.”

Aziraphale reached out and carded his hand through their hair, twirling the ends a little. They closed their eyes and let the sensation wash over them, which only relaxed the tension that apparently had been keeping the bulk of their tears at bay, and now it was a steady, quiet outpouring. 

“That’s alright, then,” he said. “It’s okay to be sad about someone you never wanted to see again.”

“ ‘M not sad,” they said, contrary to all evidence screaming otherwise. 

“Alright.”

“... maybe a little sad,” they said.  _ Mostly scared _ , they thought but didn’t say. The shakiness of their limbs was bad enough, but the fear drew them like a bowstring. They sat together in the pregnant quiet until Crowley couldn’t bear it anymore and they snapped. 

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” they said.

“If you’d like.”

“I can’t wait anymore. I can’t. All this waiting for it to happen. Just say whatever you’re gonna say.”

Aziraphale hummed. He fucking hummed, like he was being asked what he wanted for dinner, looking vaguely up at the ceiling as he did it. 

“Well then, I suppose I must say I am shocked.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” they replied, bracing for it. 

“I knew your fathers were horrid, but I am truly shocked by the level of their horridness. I’m very proud of you for standing up for yourself like that. When you said you didn’t need to be corrected, you were fine as you were, well… I must say I was so proud of you my chest felt full to bursting.”

“You… What?”

“I was proud of you. The way you told her off. Rude, horrid woman. Trying to guilt you! Trying to shame you! With family like that, who needs enemies?” He clicked his tongue. “If it were me, I don’t think I would have used quite the same language as you did, as the profanity was voluminous. Nevertheless that Dagon woman has gotten nothing less than she deserved. And I’ll support you if you did want to hear Hastur out, perhaps get some sort of healing from whatever apologies or amends he’d like to offer, but I’ll support you if you never have another single word to exchange with those… twisted creatures.”

They sniffed, their throat tight. “Okay. What about… the other thing?”

“What other— Oh! Your stalker. Yes, it is very disappointing that we still don’t know who that is. Very frustrating to find us back in the dark on that. But never you fear, my dear boy, I’ll remain vigilant, and you’ll be safe and protected until he is caught.”

“No, not that— You will? You’re not leaving?”

“No, I told you already that I was staying—”

“Not tonight! Obviously, yes, you’re staying tonight but like, in general…”

“In general,” Aziraphale repeated dumbly.

“Y-yeah?"

Aziraphale squinted, and Crowley could see the twitch of another 'don't be stupid' look being quashed. 

"Crowley," he said, a warning. "Why. Would you think. That I would leave you?" 

"Uh…" Crowley tried, they really tried to articulate their line of thought, but found that the words lodged in their craw and jumbled up in their mind, leaving them silent, mouth parted, brain blank.

Aziraphale sucked his teeth, turning away. A long moment passed before he let out a long suffering sigh and the tension drained out of his body. He rubbed his forehead and said, "Your genitals were brought up. And now you're convincing yourself they're a problem again. Yes?" 

"Nnyynnn, eeeeeeeeehhhh…" 

"I'll take that as confirmation." He dropped his hand, looking up at their ceiling in exasperated prayer, and turned to face them straight on. "Crowley. I truly, honestly,  _ deeply _ , and  _ sincerely  _ do not care what your genitals are like. I'm sure they are fine and lovely, no matter their exact configuration. My only concern is whether or not they give you pleasure or make you unhappy. I'm not going to leave you because of them." 

Their lip quivered, but they managed to blurt out, "I screamed about my vagina in front of you. 'N your gay." 

"I  _ know  _ you have a vagina Crowley, and I have for quite some time."

They sat up, shocked. "You do?"

"Oh, don't look so surprised."

"How?" _I was so careful, I was so sure my secret was safe…_ _How much does he know?_

"Oh for— Your pants are so tight they leave  _ very _ little to the imagination and I've escorted you to a photoshoot where you were  _ literally  _ wearing less fabric than is in two handkerchiefs."

"Maybe I'm just really good at tucking."

Aziraphale leveled a look and snapped back, "You've slept with your pelvis suctioned to my thighs half the nights of the past several months. Sometimes you rub up against me in your sleep. I know what a cock and bollocks feels like when it’s touching me. I'm gay, remember?"

Their jaw dropped, horrified. Aziraphale flicked their nose, immediately overriding all their other feelings with offense at the  _ audacity _ , and as their eyebrows slammed down and they started to say something he just kept talking right over it all. "And you sit to pee. I hear you plonk your groggy arse down on the loo every morning, without fail. I'm not stupid, I can put two and two together. Or in this case, two and two and two and two and—"

"Fine fine, whatever, yes. You’ve made your point." 

"Good. Now I know there's more to it than just that you have a vagina, a fact I've been cognizant of and unfazed by for months now, I must reiterate. And I presume it has to do with this surgery your parents tried to force you to get, which, by the way,  _ fuck  _ them—"

_ He said fuck. Holy shit, he said ‘fuck.’ _

"—for trying to force you into that, or trick you into that. That's horrendous. And as far a reason to run away from your parents? What a doozy. I'm glad you got away, though I assume they must have done something that's made you self-conscious, but whatever scars or procedures they did to you are not important to me." 

"What? No, they didn't manage to do anything, I got away in time. And they lost the money for the missed trip, they were furious about how much they’d lost, they kept yelling about it after they caught me again so… I mean, I don't know if they even tried to reschedule it but I wasn't going to give them the chance, you know?" 

Aziraphale put his hand on their arm. "That must have been terrifying." 

They sniffed, the mere shadow of those memories starting their tears back up. They nodded. 

"So what, exactly, are you so afraid of?" he said, soft but firm. 

"I already said!” they yelled, exasperated and unhappy that he was pushing this. “That you'll leave me!" 

Aziraphale echoed his loudness and exasperation, yelling back, "I'm not going to leave you over your genitals!" 

"You don't know that! You don't even know what they're like!" 

"I think I've already demonstrated that I mostly do know what they're like!" 

"Yeah, except for the part where you don't think I have a penis!"

His eyebrows drew down. "You have a penis?" 

_ Oh shit. Bloody shit. _ They  _ really  _ needed to stop having conversations about important secrets when they were pissed off. 

"No," they lied. 

Aziraphale glared at them. 

I'm a small, contrite voice they said, "...yes."

"Well how does that work?" he retorted, prissy.

"See, that's exactly the problem. You can say all you want that it doesn't matter, but it  _ does _ ! It's weird! I'm a freak!  _ Everyone _ freaks out about it! My weird fucked up junk that you can't even  _ imagine _ because who the fuck is even like that? It ruins all my relationships and always has and always will." 

"It won't," he said simply, stubbornly. 

“Yes it will! Literally every single person who has ever seen it, even a hint of it, has turned on me! My school friends, my one horrible prior attempt at romance, my employers. And yeah, they were never great parents but I had to literally run away from them and they tried to hurt me because of it! History has clearly spoken, Aziraphale! Why are you being such a stubborn ass about this?”

“It. Won’t.” He bit those words out one by one, leaning over them to emphasize each one. 

Growling in frustration, teeth bared, they launched themselves out of the bed, grabbed the waistband of their skirt and pants and ripped them off, throwing them on the floor like they were slam dunking the winning point. They gestured to their crotch with both hands as if to say ‘tada!’

Only then did their actions really catch up to them, as they stood there, legs wide, slightly squatting, their fucked up shit on full display, all the blood in their veins rapidly being replaced with ice water.

They thought they might pass out. Or throw up. Maybe both.

And then Aziraphale leaned in to scrutinize their area with the most serious, studious expression. 

" _ Oh _ !" he said, roughly in the same way he did when Crowley surprised him with snacks or tea. "It's so cute!”

"No it isn't!" they said. Why was he reacting like he'd been given a present? None of this made any sense. 

"Of course it is!" 

"Y'just saying that cause it's tiny."

Aziraphale open-mouth gasped silently, a ridiculous sight, "Nooo! I would never, that's terrible! No, it's cute cause it's chubby and the little glans is just peeking out, like it's shy." 

They slapped their hands to cover themselves with their hands, straightening and retreating a half step. "What the hell, Aziraphale. Are you making fun of me?" 

"No!" He sat up taller, straightening his lapels. "Of course not! I like it!" 

"You— what? It's weird! I'm a fucking freak of nature!" 

"I'll grant you that it's unusual, but it's not unheard of! You're not a freak. It's kinda like what a trans man's might look like if he takes hormones."

"You're joking."

"Completely serious. They call it 'bottom growth.' Isn't that a pleasantly vague way of talking about it? Considering your typical obfuscation, I’d think that phrasing should suit you."

"Bottom growth?"

"Indeed."

"How do you know that?"

"I'm the guardian of a trans man and have helped him make medical decisions, my dear. I've done  _ extensive _ research on the topic." 

"Oh. Right. Wensleydale." They lifted the covers, climbing into bed and pulling them up to their armpits.

Aziraphale turned to face them. "Exactly."

"Yeah but I'm not a trans man. I didn't take hormones." 

"I know."

"That's why I'm just a freak of nature." 

"Just because your configuration is natural doesn't make you a freak. It means that there are people out there that put work and money and effort into having what you were born with." 

They frowned. Hard. “What kind of weird, optimistic nonsense…” It was Aziraphale’s turn to frown. “Uh. I mean. It’s a disorder, though. Disease. Whatever.”

“What is?”

“Being wrong like this. ‘M all fucked up.”

“Didn’t you just scream at a horrid woman that you are correct as you are?”

“Whu— well,  _ yes _ , but—” 

“No buts! You are perfect and correct just as God made you.”

“Oh for the love of— Don't bring God into this. God was drunk when this was made.”

“You. Are. Perfect. And. Correct.”

They glared at him. What were they supposed to say to that? 

“Besides, it suits you.”

“It  _ suits  _ me? They’re organs, Aziraphale, not accessories! And they’re awful, they’ve ruined my life and I have to take pills every day just so my fucking hidden testicle doesn’t make me a pariah.”

“You have a testicle?” he asked with nothing but genuine curiosity. What dimension had they fallen in? “Is it just tucked? Was that not a joke, earlier?”

Crowley gaped for a while before just giving up, giving in to the ludicrousness and going boneless against the headboard. “No. It’s hidden, like, inside. We didn’t know it was there till my voice started dropping and I grew a beard.”

“You can grow a beard? Why haven’t I ever seen you shave?”

“Because I’m a model, Aziraphale. I obviously can’t have a five o’clock shadow, now can I? It was permanently removed as soon as it came in.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. I bet you’d look stunning with a bit of stubble.”

“I always look stunning.”

He hummed, and said, “Very true. I apologize if I implied otherwise.”

Fidgeting with the blanket and unable to make eye contact, they drummed up the courage and said, “Sometimes I think when I retire from modeling I might go off the hormone blockers, see what it’s like when it grows back.” 

“When that time comes, I’ll support you if you’d like to try, though I’ll support you if you decide not to.”

_ When that time comes, he said. He’s still planning on sticking around. Stubborn ass.  _ Crowley didn’t know how they felt about that. They pouted. “That’s why I don’t… gender is… I don’t know.”

“I see. Well just because your body’s an unusual mix doesn’t mean your gender has to be. You could still settle on one gender identity, if you come to prefer anything particularly.”

“I doubt I will. I mean, at first, it was really confusing and I thought, oh, you’re turning into a boy, but my dads were like, you’re a girl you’re just sick and I didn’t like either option. Then when the doctors figured out I was born intersex and I always had been that way I… It felt right, to me. To be beyond it all. To be both and neither and… Gender’s a prison when you’re being confined in just the one box.”

Aziraphale giggled. “An eloquent way of putting it, dear.”

Crowley scooched down till they were laying down, the covers pulled up to their chin.

“My dad’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“I have a mum and she’s a junkie.”

“And a  _ complete  _ wanker.”

They laughed, hollow and wheezy, and their tears started back up. Aziraphale scooted up from where he was so that he could lay beside them and hug them from on top of the covers. They were grateful for both the comfort and the blanket barrier between them. 

“You really think my teeny sort-of-clit-sort-of-penis is cute?”

“I do. Do you have a term you prefer?”

“Never really thought about it.”

“Well let me know if you do. I’m partial to cock, myself, so let me know if that bothers you.”

Crowley chuckled, “That’s so gay.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, quite. You’ve been spending too much time talking with the teenagers.”

Silence descended and they sniffed, clearing their runny nose. They felt nothing but protected and safe in Aziraphale’s arms, if worn out. It was hard to let go, to stop fearing, to stop worrying that any moment now he’d have a change of heart and freak out about it, but the rational parts of them knew that wasn’t going to happen. Their stubborn, set in his ways, bit of a bastard of a boyfriend was telling the truth. He really didn’t care, wasn’t going anywhere. He liked it, thought it suited them for Someone’s sake.

They stayed in bed for the rest of the evening, occasionally talking, or crying, or yelling. They had lots of feelings, shared them and comforted each other, ate some easy dinner, and fell asleep together. Crowley felt wrung out and empty, but also the most calm and relaxed they’d ever. 

* * *

The next day was Saturday, and after a brief argument about whether Crowley needed a babysitter or not they both decided to just spend the day with the flock of teens together. 

Which turned into a normal day with them, just like the ones they’d done before. It was weird. It was weird that it was so  _ normal _ . Aziraphale acted as he usually would, if a little more protective and cautious. He knew, he had seen even, and yet everything was back to normal. 

When Warlock asked them what was so big Aziraphale missed dinner, Crowley told her about Dagon and all their family revelations.

"Whoa. That's a lot. Like, a  _ lot _ . Are you okay?" she said.

"Yup. Fuck her."

"Language, dear," said Aziraphale. 

"Dagon deserves obscenities."

Aziraphale tilted his head in acknowledgement, and Warlock grinned about it, mouthing “Fuck her” behind Aziraphale’s back to Crowley. That made them smile. 

The rest of the day was taken up by shopping, since Warlock needed a new cold weather jacket, and when that came up suddenly all the teens needed some article of clothing or another. Five teens at a few department stores went exactly as chaotically as they’d expect. Crowley was treated as if they were an official fashion consultant, which they basically were, and Warlock was particularly pleased about having them there. She hadn't been dressing in gender affirming ways long enough to really feel comfortable with her choices, but when Crowley would approve of an outfit her confidence skyrocketed. It really made them feel appreciated, and like they contributed. Like they were becoming part of their family.

They decided to go out for dinner, because shopping had taken so long. They went to an Indian buffet, and it was amazing how much curry teenagers could hoover up in under an hour. When they were finished they escorted all the kids back home, where they all hugged Crowley goodbye. 

The next day they woke up in Aziraphale’s arms, for once rising before him. He had a small drool spot on his pillow, his hair all flattened and messy, a rare sight for them. They watched him sleep for a while, deciding that they were feeling much better. There was a small ache behind their ribs when they thought about their Dad, but they felt solid, certain in their decision to reject Hastur's overtures. Most surprising was Aziraphale, who was still acting normal, giving them morning kisses, chatting away as they drove out of the city for their defensive arts classes, getting flustered occasionally as they sparred in beginners class, and happy to hold hands. 

He truly did not care. It was unprecedented. Unbelievable. Just…  _ Terrific _ . 

Their private practices had been focused on choreographing a spectacular fight sequence for their reel, making the moves all look good and realistic with Aziraphale. Sometimes a few of the advanced class would linger to help critique it, and today Jesse had. 

"Alright, let's start at the top, as fast as you are comfortable," said Aziraphale. 

"Oh, I think I'm ready. I think it's time for full speed. Jesse, give me the signal," Crowley replied, ready. 

She got out her phone. "Okay… fight!"

They took three steps forward, lunged. Aziraphale dodged. Punch, punch, parry, jump back. Then Aziraphale attacked, a flurry of blows dodged expertly by weaving, leaning backwards as they danced across the floor. Then a back handspring kick, dodged, and a retreat across the room with more back handsprings. Jumping back into the fray, they attacked with big showy kicks, their long legs flying as Aziraphale retreated, seemingly defeated. A final fake blow, a dropkick with both feet right against his chest, and he staggered before going down like a felled tree.

Jesse tapped her phone and cheered. "That looked great! I think you got it!" 

"Yeah?" They grinned and joined her. Aziraphale stood, fussing his ugly workout suit off. 

"Yeah, look. I recorded it." She held her phone out, tapping the play button. 

Crowley dabbed sweat off their brow and watched the video play back. She was right, it looked great. Crowley looked like a total badass, and Aziraphale looked like a strong opponent defeated fairly. 

"Send me that, I'm gonna forward it to Tracy right now. She's gonna love it." 

As they were cleaning up, showered and fresh, Tracy did reply, and was thrilled. Crowley wandered to the other side of the locker room where Aziraphale was redressing in his normal suits and said, "Tracy wants to schedule a cameraman for us to record the routine official next week. Says I'm ready to get my reel together and start applying for jobs."

"Oh, I'm so nervous. I've never been filmed before."

"You just were, by Jesse!"

"That's just… moving photography. Not like… for a real film!" 

"It's the same thing, don't you worry. Besides you look great. Got nothing to work about. No need to be self-conscious."

"I suppose." He finished, packing up his things and said, "Are you still feeling self-conscious?" 

" 'Bout what?" 

Aziraphale walked out and they followed him back to the car. "Having shown me. You certainly seem to be feeling more comfortable today." 

"Ngk, uh… yyyeah, I suppose."

"Good." He pecked them on the cheek and then got in the cab. They took a moment in the cold to let themselves flush, embarrassed and a little nervous before joining him. 

_ What is even happening? _

* * *

The Estate Agent was as good as Tracy had said. When no homes near the Young’s were listed for sale on the market, he had apparently mailed polite inquiries to every house in the row asking if anyone was interested in selling their home and then in the surrounding few blocks to houses that suited their requirements. 

He’d gotten a few leads, and had been following up with Crowley’s blessing, and now, they had a potential house to go look at. With a troupe of teens in tow.

Aziraphale corralled them at the Young’s after school let out, but before they started making dinner, and they walked to the address the agent had given them. 

Crowley spent the entire time nervously staring at his GPS, trying hard not to pay attention to Pepper’s frown or Adam’s piercing gaze or Warlock’s bright eyes or Brian’s smell. Why did teen boys smell so bad? At least Wensleydale was neutral ground, walking right beside them at the front of the line, looking around with detached interest.

“Right. Here we are,” they said, looking up at the house the GPS said was their destination. It was a very modern and sleek house, with big glass windows and flat grey sides towering three floors up. At its red front door a plain man in an old fashioned brown suit was waiting, and he came over, thrusting his hand out to Crowley. 

“Dave Bickell. Nice to finally meet you in person, Miss Crowley. This is your family, then?”

Their heart skipped a beat, and their tartan handkerchief felt like it was pulsating as they squeezed it in their fist. “Uh. Yeah. They are.” They realized they had left the poor man’s hand hanging there, hung up on the dilemma that to shake it they’d have to let go of their handkerchief, and that they didn’t know if they could unclench that fist without the rest of them starting to shake with nerves. 

Aziraphale pushed through the teens to the front and took his offered hand, “Aziraphale, good to meet you. I’m Crowley’s partner.”

Crowley’s heart pounded so loud surely everyone else could hear it. He’d never introduced himself like that before.  _ Partner _ . 

“Lovely to meet you. Crowley has spoken highly of you. Good night for a house showing, because no matter what the house is like you’ll be happy to be in it and out of this cold!” He chuckled at his own joke, and Aziraphale smiled at him while Crowley just sort of stared, too wrapped up in their own internal struggles. “A few things before we go in. The current owners are still living in the property, but have left it for this showing. So the home is currently furnished, but won’t remain so if you do choose to purchase.” He moved to the door and opened it, ushering them to go ahead with a gesture.

Six pairs of eyes turned on them, followed by a chill of dread, as everyone waited for them to go first. Their legs seemed to move on their own, slinking forward and in, the rest following like ducklings in a row. 

It was so big, so… big. It was hard for Crowley to take it all in, focusing on small details instead. The foyer, a large space with a massive spiky chandelier on the ceiling that seemed like the kind of thing one of the design houses would love, moved into a sitting room and open plan dining room, with a kitchen visible at the back of the house. The floors were some sort of polished mottled stone, mostly grey but with bits and chips of some sparkling white stone embedded inside.

“Ooooh!” said Aziraphale as soon as they were all inside. “It’s all so open!” 

Which it was, other than a few stone clad columns here and there. It felt like one of those houses you’d see on TV, that rich people loved, all sharp, clean lines and minimal. The gaggle of kids meandered about, making small comments and not touching things they clearly wanted to touch, one of them sticking their head in the room behind the stairs and announcing it was a loo. 

Aziraphale made his way to the kitchen and exclaimed, “Oh, we could easily work with four of us in here! Though I’m not sure we’d all fit at the dining.”

Dave spoke up, “Since it’s an open concept it can accommodate a much larger dining space. There are only two people living here currently, but you could fit a table as long as the house if you wanted it.” 

“Oh yeah?” Adam said, staring at the little four person table in the center of the space. “We could fit everyone? Me and Mum and Dad too?"

"Yeah, if you wanted," Crowley said. "I’d have to buy a table big enough first but then sure." 

Adam looked pleased, and his small smile stayed on as he walked around. Crowley glanced out the back door to the small garden behind the kitchen. It was a nice strip of grass, but had no plantings. They could change that. 

Dave led them upstairs to a hallway with three doors and another set of stairs at the back. 

"Door on the left is the master, and then a bedroom and a bathroom on the right, though these people have it set up as a study," Dave said as he opened the doors and stepped back. The kids split up to wander about. 

“Whoa, Aziraphale this is your dream room!” Warlock called from the room on the right. Aziraphale headed her way so Crowley followed. The large study/bedroom was covered in bookcases, nearly up to the ceiling, with more books stacked in the gap. There was a leather armchair with a warm looking throw and a cluttered desk. Aziraphale, standing in it, looked right at home. 

“Oh yes, this is quite lovely. But all of this furniture would be gone, and then this would be just a plain room, dear. Don’t be too swayed by the existing pieces,” said Aziraphale. “It could be a bedroom for one of you.” He moved to the master suite, Crowley in tow as tightly as if there was a leash trailing over his shoulder, their attention focused more on his reactions than the house. It all felt surreal, like a dream. “Oh Crowley, this is lovely! It’s as big as your current room!”

And it was. It was a room. Had higher ceilings. Was white, that wasn’t great, and had the same warm wood floors as all the other rooms on this floor. Could fit his entire flat it it, almost. Aziraphale crossed to the en suite and went in. “Oh Crowley! Look how big the shower is! We could both fit in there together.”

Their brain, which had been directed to look at the stone tiled shower and had been admiring the black tiles and glass door when it screeched to a halt. Their face burned and their head whipped over to look at Aziraphale, who smiled at them. Like he hadn’t just suggested… suggested… Their mind was flashing images of Aziraphale, wet, and naked, the glass half-frosted with steam, water sliding down his soft, delicious body. Aziraphale pushing them into the spray and running his hands over their hips, chest. Kissing under the showerhead, with warm water running across their lips as they gasped for breath and tasted each other. Getting pressed up against the cool glass as hot water ran over their body and Aziraphale lined himself up behind them, rubbing up and down the valley of their arse with his—

“Crowley?” said Aziraphale. He was worried, his eyebrows heading for one another. 

“Hmm?”

“Are you alright? You’ve gone very still in the doorway.”

“Uh. Yeah. I have. Sorry. I was, uh, admiring the shower. ‘S nice. Big. Everything’s so big.”

“It is. Are you finished? I’d like to move on.”

“Yeah, yup, ‘course,” they babbled, stepping back and away. He made his way to the other bathroom, this one white with a tub shower and he hummed at it in approval. The kids were all bunched up at the bottom of the stairs with the estate agent, impatient to move on. The top floor had the same wood floors and white walls, but the three doors were laid out differently and at the end of the hall was a glass doorway to the outside. This time the kids didn’t wait for Dave, they just started throwing open doors and switching on lights and popping in and out as he stood in the center of it all and spoke to Crowley and Aziraphale. 

“This floor has three bedrooms and a balcony overlooking the garden. They’re all about the same square footage, the only difference is the layout of the closets and windows.”

“Who would want to live in a paint studio?” Pepper’s voice floated from one of the rooms. 

“It’s not a paint studio if all the easels and paint and stuff is gone, which it would be,” Warlock replied. “You can’t be swayed by furniture that would be gone.”

Aziraphale caught their eyes and rolled his, moving towards Warlock’s voice. They smiled, trailing behind. Once they joined them in what was currently a rather crowded painting studio, just filled to the gills with canvases and easels, he said “Oh this is nice. It’s about the same size as your bedrooms, isn’t it dears?” 

“I suppose,” replied Pepper. “It’s hard to tell with all the stuff.” 

Adam came in just as she finished and said, “Well the other one’s about the same and set up like a proper bedroom.” That got the Them’s attention and they all exited, trailing after him as he pointed. It was clearly a guest room, set up like a hotel and devoid of any original personality. But the room was similar to the previous one. Crowley didn’t bother more than a cursory glance in the last room. They moved out to the balcony, and that caught their interest. It was a lovely space with stone tiles and glass railings, with an area big enough to seat six around the firepit that was currently there. The sun was setting and they realized it was all south facing, even. 

_ I could fit so many plants out here. I could hang them from the railings. I could put some potted trees. Maybe even set up a greenhouse. Perfect place to grow things.  _ They realized their jaw had fallen open at some point in a small gasp and that Aziraphale was staring at them, his eyes glittering with pleasure. With a click they shut their mouth. 

“You like it,” he said. Accused. Happily. 

They grumbled, unwilling to be caught unawares but unable to deny it. It had a nice view too, overlooking the little patch of grass behind each of the houses down the street. No alley between the houses, and most of the little gardens were fenced off, but from up high it was a nice spot of green and growing in the middle of the urban landscape. 

The kids were less entranced, though Wensleydale looked pleased, and leaned over the railings to look down with Adam, Warlock lingering nearby. Pepper went back inside with Brian, who had not said anything the whole time. They shuffled back inside and down to the entrance, the Estate Agent trailing behind as he closed doors and turned off lights. They lumped up by the front door, taking in their last looks. Aziraphale looked pleased. A bit pensive, considering something, but pleased. Honestly they all looked a bit happier than on the way in, which Crowley wasn’t at all expecting considering the division the mere suggestion of a house had caused. 

Dave Bickell asked a few questions, handed them a printout of information, and tried to talk money but was quickly hushed. 

“Not in front of the kids, please,” they said and he sagely nodded with a wink. 

“Well, all the information is in your packet. If you like to start negotiations to buy let me know within the week and I’ll draft the documents,” he said, gesturing to the front door. “Since it’s a private offer there isn’t anyone who will swoop in and steal it, but they might put it on the market if we don’t get back to them soon enough.”

The kids followed his suggestion and exited, followed by the adults, and Dave locked the house up. “It was lovely meeting you all, have a nice night.”

They each murmured their polite goodbyes and left, walking in single file, no talking, everyone lost in their own thoughts. It was a short walk back to the Young’s, only a few minutes and two turns. So short that most of the gang looked surprised when they arrived home. 

“Well, that is very near. Goodness,” said Aziraphale, voicing what everyone else was thinking. “But I think it’s time we get on with dinner, yes? Brian, I believe you’re on mains and Deidre is on sides?”

Brian heaved a sigh. “Yeah, and she’s probably already started.”

His reaction made Aziraphale look concerned. “Would you like help, my dear?”

“No, no. I’d rather work alone right now.” And he was off, jogging into the back. The rest of the kids broke apart, wandering in different directions from the foyer. Aziraphale stood there wringing his hands for a moment, watching the direction Brian had gone before turning with a quiet sigh and going into the upstairs sitting room. Crowley followed. It was empty, and they sat together on the couch. 

“That was a lovely home. And so close. Mr. Bickell has done an outstanding job. But it was rather… Expensive, wasn’t it? Can you really afford such a home?” 

They had been thinking the same thing, and grunted their agreement. All the fancy clothes and looks were a veneer they worked hard in order to look like someone who owned a house like that. They pulled up the handful of paperwork their agent gave them. On top was a breakdown of costs, with lots of numbers in columns and lines. At the bottom were the words “remaining mortgage = £153,000 total, £680 per month” That didn’t make any sense so they started back at the top, squinting at the numbers one by one, working their way through it.

“Ah, I see,” they blurted out, and Aziraphale leaned over, reading a bit over their shoulder. “Yeah, the house is out of the budget I gave him.”

He sighed, retreating. “I thought so. That’s too bad. It would have been lovely to live there, and there was so much space for everyone, but of course it’s just a dream. Oh well.” He smoothed his pants along his thighs, not making eye contact. 

“No, no, I could still buy it. I just can’t buy it outright, since it’s more than the budget I gave him. I’d have to have a mortgage too. But I could buy it.” The truth was right there in the maths, fake as it felt.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Says right here,” they tapped the final line, which Aziraphale scrutinized. “It’d be £680 a month. Pending Bank Approval.”

His eyes flew open, wide and surprised. “That’s all? That’s less than I pay for here.”

“Yeah. ‘S about what I pay for my place. A bit more.” They’d been looking forward to the idea of not paying rent, but if they had to for Aziraphale to live with them, it was well worth the price. 

“That can’t be right.”

“Well when you’re dropping  _ half a million pounds _ on something in cash, what’s left of the price is rather reasonable. Even something that nice. Apparently.”

“Oh,” he said, and they both lapsed back into pensive silence. 

When the kids fetched them for dinner everything felt back to normal, as it always was when they ate together. Tonight's menu was Yorkshire pudding with leftover roast and gravy, with peas and mash as sides. The Youngs led the chit chat after everyone was served, a bit sparse while the teenagers were shoveling food down their gullets like they were starving, as always. 

“So,” said Deirdre, “How was today? Anything interesting happen?”

Aziraphale inhaled, preparing to speak when he was cut off by Brian. “Yeah, I got something.” All eyes turned to him. “I’ve been accepted as an apprentice carpenter. I start work next Monday.”

“What wonderful news!” Deirdre said. “Congratulations!”

“Yes, well done,” Arthur chimed in. “Congratulations.” Followed by excited congratulations and back patting, verbal and literal, by the rest of the people around the table. Aziraphale beamed, pride and excitement radiating from him as he fawned over the boy. Brian himself looked a bit subdued, even though he was smiling and accepting all the hullabaloo. Crowley picked at their food and waited, the only outlet for their tension their rapidly bouncing knee. 

“We went and saw a house!” Warlock said as soon as that died down. “It’s right over there,” she gestured with her fork vaguely in the right direction, “and it’s big! Big as this one, even! But it’s all new and flat and shiny and modern. Like… Like… “

“Like IKEA stuff?” Deidre suggested.

Crowley wrinkled his nose, “No. Not like IKEA. Modern. Chic. Like Renzo Piano. Not cheap and flat pack. High end. Stone and glass. Not plastic and acrylic.” 

“Whose Renzo Piano?” said Pepper.

“The guy who designed the Shard, among other things,” they replied. 

“Oooo, how lovely!” Deidre said. 

“Yeah, it was great,” said Warlock. “I want the room by the balcony!”

“I don’t think we’re quite to the stage where we’re claiming rooms, dear,” said Aziraphale. 

“Why not?” she demanded. “That one was my favorite. It had the best view.”

“Because we haven’t even discussed if it would work. Or if we want to live there.”

“Well then let’s talk about it. What do the rest of you think?” she said.

Pepper pressed her lips, Brian glanced around, looking at everyone else, and Wensleydale just looked big eyed and worried. Adam was the one who leaned forward, clear eyed and tall and said “It’s a good option. It’s so close. It would barely be like living apart at all. And we could trade off on whose house we eat dinner at, like we already trade on who cooks and who cleans. Plus there was a room for everyone to have their own space. Warlock is right, that’s really important for everyone. There’s room to grow up. To bring home boyfriends of our own—”

“Now hold on here one minute,” Arthur interrupted. “Whose got a boyfriend? Why is this the first we’re hearing of this?”

“I was speaking  _ hypothetically _ !” Adam emphasized, but the darkening of Brian’s ears told a different tale. 

“Brian, dear.” Aziraphale said gently. “Are you secretly dating someone?”

His previously averted eyes whipped up. “No!” Adam gave him a prompting look, and Aziraphale seemed to twinkle more caringly that usual, miraculously. “Okay, fine! I  _ don’t  _ have a boyfriend, I just have… I don’t  _ have  _ anything. There’s just a guy.”

Pepper gasped, “A prospect! You have a prospect!”

Brian nodded. “And let’s leave it at that. Please?” he groaned out. 

“Yes, we shall. We don’t want to embarrass you further. But thank you for letting us know. You have so much exciting news today! How wonderful,” said Aziraphale. 

With that the house discussion wrapped up and the rest of dinner went by uneventfully, and after some family time and hugs goodbye Crowley and Aziraphale left, going back to their flat for the night. Aziraphale was humming some familiar tune as he changed and got ready for bed, a little smile on his face. As soon as they were under the covers together, he reached for them, pulling them into a tight, full body hug.

When he relented, no longer pressing their head to his chest they said, “What’s gotten into you?”

“Thank you. For being with me. For wanting me in your life. For caring for the kids and their well being too. I am so blessed to have you.”

They snorted. “You mean cursed. Weird family drama. Body hang ups. Stalkers.”

Just like that they were being crushed to his chest again, even harder than before. “Nooo! No! You’re wonderful!”

“Alright, alright, I give up. I’m a gift from God,” they said, though it was partially muffled from where their face was being smashed into his surprisingly thick, hard pecs. 

He relented with a whispered, “Blessing.” Crowley laughed, soft and airy, running their hand up and down his back and snuggled back in, their nose just brushing up against his shirt. With their eyes closed, they breathed in his scent, relaxing on the exhale, sleep creeping in.

“I love you,” Aziraphale breathed. 

Crowley’s eyes flew open and they reared back, chills running down their spine. Their heart pounded, as they searched Aziraphale’s face for some scrap, some hint of what was wrong, what was about to happen, but he just looked confused and concerned, his hand up in surrender.

Their skin itched. Tingled. Was cold. Were they sweating? They were. 

“I, uh. I gotta piss,” they said, extracting themselves from the situation. The room felt so much colder upon exiting their bed, the cold concrete floor almost painful on their feet as they scurried to the loo. Considering the sudden urgency of their bladder there was nearly nothing in it. They sat there, waiting, feeling comforted by the closeness of the walls and yet leery of all the space in between them, of the shadows behind the shower curtain.

Was he angry? Did Crowley do something wrong? Was he mad about the joking? That Crowley wasn’t— no that didn’t make any sense. Was there some news that needed broken? Maybe he knew something about the stalker? Or Crowley’s fucked up family? 

The house. That must be it. He didn’t want to move into the house. Or at all. They wiped, pulled up their pants and started pacing. Couldn’t flush, not yet, because Aziraphale would hear that, would expect them to emerge and they weren’t ready to face… They weren’t ready yet for whatever it was that was coming, was about to happen. 

They just needed a minute. 

It was a very small bathroom, and very hard to pace in. It took a lot of minutes, and even then, they didn’t feel much more ready. Just braced a bit better, but if they waited any longer Aziraphale might come in here, might break down the door and demand to know what was taking so long. That would be worse. Couldn’t put it off any longer. They flushed the toilet, took a deep breath, and washed their hands, the cold water no colder than their already icy fingers.

Aziraphale was sitting up, the blanket fisted tightly in his lap.  _ Oh no. _ But then he smiled up at them, and pulled the blankets open, inviting them in. But his eyes looked wetter than normal. But then he was scooting down and inviting them back into a cuddle. 

“Oh Good Lord, you’re freezing,” he said, rubbing their hands between his own. Part of them thought he was trying to warm them up, but part of them felt their thinner fingers being constrained by his much larger ones and had the persistent idea that they were going to be broken.

Aziraphale would never do that. It was fine. He moved to hug them again and again the idea that they were going to grab them, hurt them rose up and they shrank back. Which was stupid, what were they thinking? Of course, he wouldn’t. He would never. 

He could though. He was very strong. They’d fantasized many times about how hot it would be to be held down because they both knew he could, and there wasn’t anything Crowley could do about it, but that he wouldn’t, unless they both wanted to. 

Now was just a bad time for a hug. They grabbed his hand instead, interlacing their fingers together and pulled it up against their chest. Aziraphale smiled, a soft warm thing that made them glow inside, chasing away some of the fear and panic. Whatever that unnamable feeling they had was, it was powerful, even when it was small. 

It took a long time, but when they slept, they were still holding his hand to their chest. 

* * *

They spent Saturday at the Young’s making final house decisions. Brian actually made the firmest decision. 

“We should get the house,” Brian said. “But I’m going to stay here. I’m going to be earning a paycheck, I’ll rent the flat.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said with a clear but kind voice, “I’m afraid you can’t afford it, even with your new salary. A two bedroom flat is more expensive than you’d think.”

Brian had demanded to know the specifics. Aziraphale had been reluctant to show him, having wanted to give the kids the kind of carefree childhoods they deserved. He told Brian that, told him that he didn’t want them to have to grow up too fast and worry about money and bills and all that. That they’d all have to soon enough.

Crowley agreed. They’d have given anything to have had someone who would have taken care of them like that, and told him that. They were only a handful of years older than the kids, but it never felt like it, because they’d been worn down by close to a decade of bills and money and scrounging and being alone. 

Pepper joined him and insisted. Brian won the argument. 

So the bills and calculators came out. Spreadsheets. 

Then the “Oh”s and frowns and sadness. Pepper even started talking about getting a job and Aziraphale shut that down, hard. 

“Your job is to study, and do well, so you can go to university like you want to,” he said. Crowley had never seen him be so firm, and she relented.

In the end, Brian wouldn’t let up, insisting that since he was earning an income that he’d contribute at least part of the rent until he earned enough to take over completely, and then it was just negotiating exactly how much. 

Crowley was going to buy the house, and Aziraphale was going to live in it with them. Warlock and Wensleydale would have their own rooms there, but Brian and Pepper would keep the rooms at the flat, on the condition that the empty rooms at the new house would be done up as bedrooms and Adam or Pepper or any of them could stay over whenever they wanted to. 

It was a good solution. Dave Bickell was happy to hear the news, and said he’d start the process right away.

By the time the tension died down and it was almost dinner. There was a knock at the front door, and Deidre called down from upstairs. “Brian, dear, you have a delivery!” 

“I didn’t order anything…” he said and they all shuffled up. Standing in the foyer was Deirdre with a huge bouquet of yellow carnations all tied with a ribbon that said “Congratulations.” She passed it over to him and he blushed. 

“What am I supposed to do with this? Who did this?” he said. 

All eyes turned to Aziraphale. 

“Don’t look at me! I didn’t. Though they are lovely. Maybe you have an admirer? Does it have a card?” said Aziraphale. 

Brian looked, finding a little spike with a small envelope attached. 

“Huh. That’s weird,” he said, flipping the envelope back and forth, looking down inside it. “It’s just.. Blank. A blank envelope with nothing in it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my latest outline, the last chapter of this story is 21. Almost there! I debated a lot about updating the ? but I just don’t want to get to the end and it be 20 or 22. 
> 
> For any of my readers in America, I hope you get a break this week and don't work in retail. What a horrible year for Black Friday nonsense. 1


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note for this chapter: Ahoy! There be “E” ahead, mateys.

December was busier than their prior Decembers, which was great. They hated Christmas and welcomed all the distractions from it. Tracy hired a cameraman and they recorded all sorts of test films— from their choreography to monologues to some singing, the whole works, done professionally and added to their portfolio. That, coupled with meeting with designers for their spring lines and their weekly work with Dior kept them very busy and distracted till the week before, when everything shut down for the holiday and it became unavoidable. 

Aziraphale loved Christmas, of course he did. Took it all serious, read the bible and everything. Christmas for him wasn’t the cheesy stuff Crowley had grown up with, but it was still irritating, still brought up bad memories and expectations they chafed at. The kids were a mixed bag, and Brian at least agreed with them that it was a terrible holiday. Wensleydale loved the kitsch, wore lots of hideous red and green sweaters, and decorated around the house. Pepper ignored most of it, like she was above it all, like it was only for little kids. When Aziraphale asked Crowley if they wanted to get gifts for everyone or not they snapped, “I’m buying them a house. Isn’t that enough?”

It started an argument. A short one, at least, since they immediately apologized. Afterwards Aziraphale avoided talking about Christmas stuff with them. They felt bad at their own relief from the change. Christmas was just… too much being judged, too much pressure, it was all too much. They did buy the kids presents, in that they had no idea what to buy for teens, thought back to what they’d wanted at that age, and ended up giving them cash. A hundred pounds each— they were all thrilled. Crowley thought they might cry afterwards, the tension of needing to get it right but not knowing how to do so had been so stressful, so thick in their body that when it was gone they felt hollowed out. 

Even though they tried to play it off, Aziraphale knew. He quietly fussed about it, hugging them through the rest of the evening with the family. It helped. When they were alone in Crowley’s flat that night he apologized. 

“I’m sorry. We should have talked more before Christmas dinner with the family about what to expect. Christmas should be about caring for one another, and yet I didn’t show you enough care, my dear. Next year, I’ll be better. And if you don’t want to participate, you don’t have to. I should have been more clear on that too. I’m sorry you felt you had to.”

“I didn’t have to. I know that, ‘S just…” they said, trailing off. It would have been weird to not. It would have made them look stingy, or mean, or … bad. They didn’t want Aziraphale’s family to reject them, to feel like they thought they weren’t with them. “... Maybe I did. I don’t know… I want to fit in.”

“Rest assured that you do, and you can continue to do so even if you don’t like or participate in Christmas ever again. They like you. If they didn’t they wouldn’t want to live with you, or be arguing about who gets the right to decorate which guest room. Which they are. Regularly. They’re  _ very  _ enthused. And they ask me all the time if you’re coming to dinner, even though they know you only come over on the weekends.”

Crowley relented, sliding into bed and the waiting arms of their boyfriend. 

“I lo— I like you too. Very much. More than you know,” Aziraphale whispered into their hair, before kissing them good night. 

  
  


The new year came and went, and Aziraphale had to work extra shifts at The Commodore so their personal revelry was limited. He was a little disappointed, but got to kiss Crowley first thing when he got home. Crowley jumped right back into work too, with a meeting with Madame Tracy first thing at her office the next morning. She was glitterier than usual, in holographic glasses and sequined blouse, and clearly still a bit tired from her New Year’s activities as she launched straight to business, very little chattering. It was all a bit boring for Aziraphale this way, so he just lingered in the back of her office sipping his tea as she ran all of the footage she’d chosen for Crowley’s portfolio by them, and then had them signing paperwork for applying to drama schools.

“Your reel is lovely, Crowley, just lovely. I’m going to start trying to book you gigs with it, because having experience under your belt will only help you build your career. I think we can get you some commercial—”

“Commercial? Oh no. No no no! I’m a high fashion model! I’m not moving to commercial.”

Tracy pressed her lips, tilting her head just slightly, disappointed and annoyed but trying to be patient. “Modeling and acting aren’t the same thing. I’m not putting you into commercial modeling, I’m putting you into commercial  _ acting _ . It's a perfectly respectable way of entering the field. Lots of actors have started their careers like this."

Crowley pouted. "Really?"

"Oodles." They didn't look particularly reassured so she added, "Trust me."

They grumbled, “Fine. I trust you.” The topic moved on, going over the contracts that we're renewing that year, including their work with K.U.D. and a new one with the main house of Dior. 

"You'll be walking all four Fashion Weeks this spring, then, and for two major brands. Congratulations! That's quite an achievement. While you're abroad I've booked a few other catwalks— though I suppose I should say runways since we're starting in America. You'll have a week or two in each city for fittings and preparations as well as the event itself, and I've squeezed in a few photoshoots too. Get your affairs in order beforehand, you'll be out of the country for most of February and March." 

"I… will?" They said, shocked. Aziraphale too was floored, they’d mentioned nothing like that, had done nothing so grand before. 

"Unless you'd like  _ less  _ work."

"No! No, that's great Tracy. Terrific. I just… wow."

_ Indeed. _

"You're in the big leagues now, dearie! Wait till you see the total compensation. You'll be pleased about that. It’s certainly going to be worth your while." She pulled out a printout of numbers, tapping the bottom line. They leaned forward over her desk to read it, then flopped back in their chair, starting vacantly into the middle distance. She put it back in the stack with a smug smirk. 

Crowley finished the rest of their paperwork with that dreamy, dazed look on their face. When they left they suddenly announced that they wanted to take Aziraphale out to eat at the nicest, fanciest place he'd ever dreamed of eating. 

"You're in quite the mood," he said.

"You heard the lady. I'm in the big leagues now. I'm going to watch you eat Michelin starred cuisine and then eat you up after."

"Shouldn't someone in the big leagues be the one being eaten? That seems like a most exquisite evening of celebration,” Aziraphale said. Crowley whipped around, stopping in their tracks to look at him. He licked his lips and spoke in a throaty voice, “I’m a connoisseur of rare and closely guarded delicacies, you see.”

“Hnnnff.” 

He stepped closer, nearly touching them, wanting to feel at least the heat of their body on his.

“If that’s something you might be interested in sharing, that is.”

Crowley’s mouth worked, but no sound came out so they shut it with a click. Their eyes were wide and searching underneath their sunglasses, then they settled, the tension sliding out of them. They swayed toward him and nodded. 

“Wonderful.”

Crowley laced their fingers together and took off at a brisk walk, tugging Aziraphale behind them

“Where are we rushing off too?” he said. 

“Home. Bed.”

Aziraphale laughed. “We should get some food first, my dearest. You’ve only had toast and coffee today. I was suggesting more of a postprandial rendezvous.” 

Crowley slowed, chuckling under their breath. “I cannot believe you. You’re making an afternoon shag sound so sophisticated. You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“I do.” He pulled them over to plant a kiss on their cheek. They shared a smile and made their way to the company cab. As Aziraphale was driving, Crowley diligently looked things up and made phone calls. They apparently called to try and eat lunch at the Ritz, but of course one couldn’t just pop in unannounced. It would have taken a miracle for a table to be free. So instead, Crowley booked a date for them after their world tour, to celebrate their return, and grumbled about having to ‘settle’ for something less fancy today. 

In the end, they went to a lovely Japanese restaurant, where Crowley ate a steaming bowl of sukiyaki, a rich and sweet winter celebration hotpot, and Aziraphale savored a plate of sushi and sashimi. Sometimes, after a particularly delicious bite he would open his eyes and see Crowley staring at him, lust written all over their face, and it rekindled their own in kind. There were several moments where he had to shift himself, his pants growing tight at the prospects that awaited. They'd had sex before, true, but not since Crowley had finally trusted him enough to show him, and he'd never been given permission to touch them below the waist, much less— 

Aziraphale couldn't think about that right now, couldn't let himself get too excited. They were in public, after all. And the sashimi really was perfect, so rich and soft and salty and just the right temperature. It was important to focus on the delicious flavors he had right now, so as to not speculate on what flavors would be to come. To focus solely on laying his food on his tongue and savoring it, ignoring the intensity of his companion, the raw fire in their eyes each time he did so.

He managed, his control only slipping a few times before they made it back to Crowley's flat. The very moment they closed the door it broke, and he crowded them up against it, kissing them hard on the mouth. Caught by surprise, they let out a muffled gasp but pushed back against him, kissing as hard as they were being kissed, running their hands up to squeeze his thick arms. 

He pulled back for air and Crowley chased his mouth, leaving Aziraphale breathless. If he wanted air he'd have to take it, so he grabbed Crowley's hips, sliding his hands down to hoist them up. They gasped, breaking their kiss and grabbing their arms hard.

"Oh,  _ fuck yes _ ," they said as he carried them over to their bed. 

"That's the general idea, dear." He set them down giggling, and kneeled to unstrap their heels, pressing kisses to one now-bare foot, then ankle, moving up their long, beautiful leg, hiking their skirt as he reached their knees. They pulled their sunglasses off, their eyes molten gold as they looked down at him. 

"You are so…" they said, pulling their bowtie off and running their finger underneath his collar. "I feel… something. You make me happy. So happy. And hot. Hot for you." 

He beamed up at them. "You make me happy too." 

They scooted forward, wrapping their knees around him, and started undoing his buttons, pressing kisses to his forehead from time to time as they went. When they finished they said, "I want you. I want you so bad, Aziraphale. I can’t wait anymore, I want to feel you touch me,  _ finally _ ." 

He pulled his unbuttoned clothes off, dropping them as he rose to their embrace. "Oh, you have no idea how much I want this, dearest. How I have longed, how I have dreamed," he said as he buried his face in their shoulder, running his cheek over their skin and biting kisses into their neck. Crowley squirmed, shimmying out of their clothes, prompting Aziraphale to unbuckle and discard his own. Normally he’d take care, set the clothes Crowley bought him somewhere safe and wrinkle free, but today he couldn’t spare them a second though, dropping them to the floor carelessly. All of his attention was on Crowley: on their smooth, freckled skin; their chest heaving as they panted; their wide eyes, dilated into thin gold rings. 

He kissed them again, and they fell back, pulling Aziraphale on top of them. Part of him wanted to thank them for sharing their insecurities and trusting him with this, for still wanting this, wanting him, but he couldn't. It would hurt them to be reminded of their fears. Instead he quietly resolved to do his best to earn the trust placed in him, to make sure Crowley enjoyed themselves to the fullest. 

Starting with kissing their weak spots. Right behind their earlobe. The crook of their neck. The small swell of their chest. The inside of their wrist. Their pouty bottom lip. He ran his hands up and down their sides, feeling their hips, their soft little bottom, so different without clothes. It was all so much more intimate when he grabbed their arse and could feel it spreading. 

When a hand grabbed his cock he gasped and dropped them back down. It surprised him, both by its sudden appearance and with how great it felt. Their hands were so soft, so smooth against his hard, throbbing cock as they stroked, searching his face for approval. He gave it in wordless vocalizations of pleasure, too enraptured by the sensation for coherent thoughts. He pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes and sharing their breaths, trying to gather himself. 

This wasn't supposed to go this way. He reached down to take Crowley's hand by their wrist, stilling it, and pulled back. 

They were looking up at him, concern peaking their eyebrows, fear just in the corners of their mouth. He smiled at them in an attempt to project safety, and moved their hand to touch themselves. 

_ That's right, we've done this before. Nothing to fear here, _ he thought and Crowley took the hint and stroked themselves. He caressed their arm lightly, a whisper of a touch from knuckles to elbow and back, bringing him ever closer and closer to touching together as he kissed slowly down their body. 

Finally,  _ finally _ , he dipped down, tangling their fingers together so they could both stroke their little cock. Which felt wonderful, simply wonderful. It was hard as they rubbed, straining up and out, exciting Aziraphale's own to do the same. He throbbed, so hard it hurt. Crowley's was rapidly growing wetter, lubricating their motions. 

His kisses reached their belly button, the farthest they'd ever gone before and he flicked his eyes up, looking for some sign of distress, that Crowley had changed their mind, but all he saw was lust, their mouth open and needy. He gently stilled their hand, slowly moving it to the side while maintaining eye contact, wary of any sign that he should stop, but none came. Their cock waited, hard and ready and his mouth watered. 

Tentatively he licked it with just the top of his tongue, a small flick that made them jump. 

"Was that alright? Are you alright?" He said, drawing back.

"Yeah, yessssss. Oh fuck, yesss." 

"Should I stop?"

"No, please  _ don't _ ." 

"Oh. Good, then. You taste delicious," he said, because they  _ did _ . He went back for a longer taste, licking a wide path, which elicited a lovely moan from Crowley. He gathered up their cock with his tongue and sucked, the musky saltiness a heady taste he quickly fell in love with. And it was so convenient to suck a small cock. It was so easy, not struggling to breathe or not gag even with his nose buried against their body. 

He loved it. He could just stop thinking, stop worrying about juggling all the difficulties he’d had with big dicks. He loved Crowley and loved pleasuring them, loved being able to lose himself in his efforts. Their legs came up, hedging his head as he worked, earning his rewards in moans and gasps as they writhed. 

Before long Crowley said, "Ah, ah, Aziraphale I'm gonnaaaaa—" and then they were shouting, arching their back up off the bed as they crested, their hips grinding down on his face, a new sensation that he instantly cherished. They dropped back down, their thighs falling to the sides as they panted, coming down from their orgasm and Aziraphale relented, pulling away. 

Only then did he realize his chin was soaking wet, so he retrieved his handkerchief, carefully dabbing away the moisture. 

Crowley started laughing, throaty from their voice being raw. They had turned on their side, propped up on one arm to look at him. 

"I don't know why I didn't expect to see you using a napkin like you’d just finished a meal at a restaurant, but I suppose I should have," they said. "You are ridiculous." 

Aziraphale hummed. "We can only be who we are." He finished cleaning himself and slid back into bed, drawing Crowley into an embrace.

"Speak for yourself," Crowley snorted and pressed their face into his broad chest, idly rubbing his back with one hand. "That was the best orgasm I have ever had." 

"Good. I'll gladly suck your cock for you anytime." 

They threw their arm over their eyes. "Holy  _ fuck _ . Aziraphale, you can't just  _ say _ stuff like that!" 

"Why not? It's true. I adored it. It's glorious." 

"That’s not… it's just," they trailed off and their hand came down, roamed lower, finding his erection again. "It's indecent." 

"Hardly," he said, closing his eyes, ready to focus on his own pleasure. After only a few pumps with their hand his cock became warm and wet. His eyes flew open, meeting Crowley’s golden ones as they looked up from where they had their mouth on him. "That feels… oh my dearest, that's exquisite." 

It was, sending waves of hot, needy pleasure rocketing through his body, just enough sensation to fill him, but not quite enough to sate. They were holding their hand still, not giving any pressure with it as they worked the head. He laid his hand in theirs, wrapping their fingers tighter and pumped. Crowley immediately caught on, giving him pressure and stroking as they bobbed. It was just what he wanted and he moaned loudly. 

It felt marvelous. Transcendent. The sensations filled him, crowding out any other thoughts as his heart beat pulses of love through him. Almost embarrassingly quickly he tried to pull back, to stop but Crowley pressed on.

He gasped out, "please, I'm going to… I don't want to hit your thr—" but before he could finish the tension in his body released, pulsating as he ejaculated. The first spurt did hit their throat, and they coughed and pulled away, but not far enough as the rest of it got them in the face, marking their nose, lips and cheeks. 

"Oh goodness, oh dear, I'm so sorry. I knew if you didn't prepare for it that it'd get you like that, I should have warned you better. Now look at you, I've made such a mess, I'm so sorry!" Aziraphale fussed.

"Don't be," Crowley said, blinking up at him, thoughtful. "The part that made me choke was no fun, but I think I like the facial."

It was Aziraphale's return to blink. "You do?" 

They sat back on their heels, closing their eyes and taking a deep breath before looking right at him, connecting them. 

"Yeah. Feels… makes me feel things I like feeling. Marked. I don’t know. Though now it's starting to slide off and that's  _ not  _ pleasant."

Aziraphale leapt up, rushing to retrieve a clean cloth to wipe up his mess. Crowley just tilted their head back and let him, eyes closed and relaxed. When he finished he was so overwhelmed with how much he loved them, he wanted to say it so badly, but knew better. He kissed them gently on each eyelid. 

“I adore you. You are my dearest person,” he said instead.

Their face lit up and gave him the softest, warmest smile he’d ever seen. They reached out and cradled his face. “I adore you, too. You’re  _ my _ dearest person.”

It was the closest they’d ever come to saying “I love you” to Aziraphale and it made him tear up. He wanted them to know so badly, wanted them to feel how he was feeling, so he kept talking. 

“You are so wonderful. I lo— long for you when you’re not here. I miss you when I’m at work and I look forward to waking up with you in the mornings.”

“Even though I’m so grumpy?”

“You’re less grumpy once you’ve had your coffee,” he said with a giggle. “But yes, I do. Even when you’re grumpy, which is more than just mornings. Waking up with you, being able to spend my time with you is… It’s like being bathed in sunshine. It’s warm and bright and fills me with light.”

Crowley pulled back, their messy curls falling forward in a halo around their shocked face. He frowned, worried, but they just blurted out, “That’s it! That’s it exactly! That’s the feeling. I have that feeling too.” They pecked his forehead. "It's like… syrup. Golden syrup that makes you warm and fills you up… I've never had this feeling before. It's just with you. It's so weird. Don't get me wrong, it's great, I like it, it's just weird to feel something and not know what it is." Crowley settled back down, cuddling up tightly. “You make me feel like that all the time. Whatever it is.”

This only made Aziraphale frown harder. "It's love, Crowley." 

"Bleh. No."

"What do you mean,  _ no _ ? Crowley that's literally love you're describing." 

"No it isn't. Love is just… when you like something a lot. Love is… Love’s the reason you don't ditch people you don't like anymore. There's nothing consuming or warm about love." 

He squinted, convinced he must have heard that wrong. "There's nothing  _ warm _ about  _ love _ ?" 

"No. The closest it comes is like… like loving chocolate. And that's nice, but it's not warm. Just really nice. Love is usually cold."

"What are you talking about?"

"Love is… love is putting your cat to sleep because he's old and sick. Love is being grounded. Love is… doing things because it's in your best interests, whether you want to or not. That’s what love is like. It’s being told, ‘We do this because we love you’ and then being hurt. It’s restrictive and painful and a chain that pulls you and hurts you when you feel it. Love is cold." 

And that was all so sad. Too sad. The happy tears quickly turned to regular tears, welling up to spill from his eyes. That explained the strange reactions they had whenever the word came up. Aziraphale hugged them tightly, gathering himself. When his tears stopped he pulled back, gathering their hands in his. "My dear, my  _ dearest _ . That is  _ not  _ love. That is… obligation, that is… when love is used as an excuse to do something to you. That's not love. Or at least, that's not what love should be. I'm sorry that it has been like that for you. It infuriates me that people who said they loved you taught you that. They were wrong. It was wrong. Love can hurt, but it’s not supposed to." 

They wrinkled their forehead in confusion. “Now what are you on about?”

“Please, just trust me. Your parents said they loved you, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“And it hurt?”

“Well, yeah, usually. Cause they’d be doing something to hurt me.”

“Like what?”

“Like I said. Like when my cat was old and sick and they put her to sleep. Because they loved me and I loved him. And that’s what you do when you love something. And like, they’d say it when I was in trouble and I’d get locked in my room, or when I’d get spanked, or you know, punished. They’d always say they loved me and that this was for my own good. Even when they kidnapped me and tried to force me into surgery. That’s what love is like. It was never something nice, something warm and golden and precious. Nothing at all like this.”

He started crying again and Crowley’s face fell.

“No, no! Don’t cry! Whatever I said, I’m sorry. I apologize.”

“No, you don’t need to apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m just sad because it’s so sad, dearest, that you’ve been treated like that. That your stupid, horrid parents ruined the idea of love for you. Love  _ is _ warm, and golden and precious. Love is engrossing and consuming, and it makes you crazy and want nothing but to be with the person you love, and then when you are it makes you bubbly and happy. And when they’re gone it hurts, it pulls and it grabs and it strains you and that’s how love hurts, when it’s missing. Love hurt you because it was missing, and you knew it, and that hurts.”

They looked dubious, but worried about him. 

“Just… Just think on it. And know that I love you. And that means that I adore you, and want you in my life for as long as you’ll have me, and would never hurt you, no matter what words we use to describe it. Alright?” 

Their eyes were watery and soft as they nodded. “Alright.” 

* * *

The house was theirs. New, clean, big and empty. They had scheduled the closing the day they were supposed to leave for New York, because the seller wouldn’t accept any earlier and Crowley wanted to finish before they left. They were packed and ready to go, two new suitcases for their international travel waiting in Aziraphale’s car, though their flight didn’t leave till the evening. It being a Saturday meant that Aziraphale and all of the kids, even Adam, were also there when the keys were handed over and all the paperwork signed. 

“Congratulations!” said Dave Bickell, and shook their hand. “Welcome to being a property owner.” He excused himself and left them all standing in a truly cavernous, empty room. 

“Right. Uh,” they said. They had no idea how to furnish a house. They’d lived in their flat with just a bed for years, and gathered the rest from various sources. 

“Now can I claim my room?” said Warlock. “Because I claim the room by the balcony. I’m gonna go see it!” She took off, the rest of Them going with her, arguing about rooms. 

Aziraphale wandered into the kitchen. “Oh dear, we’ll need a fridge before we can move in. On the bright side, we’ll get a nice big one for everyone, not the small one you already have. I can finally bake whenever I want again. Have you already scheduled the movers, Crowley?”

“No, angel. I was going to leave that up to you.”

“Alright. I can take care of that. That’s not so hard.”

“And buying a new fridge. You’d know more than me what we’ll need.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And really, can I just leave it all to you?”

“All of what?”

“Getting the furniture. Getting this livable. Moving. Can you just… Take care of it while I’m gone? I don’t want to wait till I’m back to move.”

“I suppose so. I can send you pictures of things, see if you like them. Arrange for delivery and such.”

They sighed, and relaxed. “Thanks. Yes. I mean, I can pick out some things while I’m gone but like, for all the kids? No clue. And you can just call movers and get all our stuff in here that we already have, oversee that.”

The kids piled back down stairs, running up. 

“Pepper wants to do up the other room on the second floor, but that’s going to be your room, right Aziraphale?” asked Wensleydale.

“What? No,” he said. “Crowley and I are sharing the master.”

“You don’t want your own space?” said Adam.

“Not particularly, no.” Aziraphale replied. Everyone turned and looked at Crowley. 

“Nope. Looking forward to sharing. Been alone long enough,” they said. 

“Well that’s not fair then, because that’s the biggest room. Pepper isn’t even going to live here full time. She can’t call the biggest room.”

“Well there’s not enough rooms for everyone to have their own anyway if we’re including Adam, which you’ve all insisted we do,” said Aziraphale. “So how about we put two beds in the big room and make it a guest room for both of you?”

Pepper grumbled, but they all acquiesced. 

“Right, well I’ll leave you all to get that sorted, then.”

Warlock spoke up, “That’s right, you’re leaving for New York today. Very exciting!”

Like they needed reminding. “Yup, that’s right, busy fancy me.” They pulled out their wallet, got their credit card, and handed it to Aziraphale. “Use this, buy whatever you need to get the house in order. Should have plenty to cover everything, just don’t go over ten thousand pounds. Or at least warn me if you do so I can pay some of the balance off, you’ll hit the limit.”

Aziraphale looked at them, stunned and wide eyed. The kids lit up like it was Christmas all over again. 

Adam whistled. “Sugar Daddy Crowley!”

They groaned as loud as they ever had in their life, “Never,  _ never ever _ call me that again. Bloody hell. ‘M not a sugar… No. Just no. I can’t even say it.”

Pepper quirked an eyebrow, her eyes roving about the very large house they all stood in, with it’s high ceiling, massive glazing, and stone everything. 

“Shut it,” they told her. 

“I didn’t say anything!” she protested.

“You didn’t have to use words. You can say things with your face, and you were screaming it.” 

She rolled her eyes and turned away. The other kids smiled and they knew it was because of some other faces being made but left it alone. They shuddered. They weren’t a… a… 

They  _ weren’t. _

Aziraphale’s cheeks were pink and he, damningly, avoided their gaze and he said, “Well then, I think we’re done here for right now. Time to get you some dinner and off to the airport, isn’t it dearest?”

“I suppose so. Here you go, angel,” they said, handing the keys they’d just gotten over. “Make a spare just in case. And here is the card of the contractor Tracy uses if you need anything done. Don’t let the kids go too crazy.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. I’ve been reigning the Them in for years, my dear boy.”

He kissed them, a quick peck on the mouth, but it helped. It was only two weeks and then they’d be back for London Fashion Week. But then they’d be off again to Milan and then Paris and then the Caribbean. They were a ball of nerves, and unhappy that they had to go off alone for so long. Months. Alone. Without Aziraphale.

They’d be fine though, right? 

* * *

Crowley had a broken blister on their heel bleeding into their socks, and there weren’t any plasters in their hotel room so they’d just been holding a wad of toilet paper to it, not sure what to do. Then their phone rang, which was probably Aziraphale calling for their nightly chat. They scrambled to answer it, hopping across the room on the good foot to scoop their phone up from where it charged. 

“Yeah, yeah one second,” they said, then hit the speakerphone on. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes, it’s me,” he said. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, I just. I have a broken blister on my heel and it won’t stop bleeding and I don’t speak a word of Italian but I’ve got to get something to put on it, but that means walking to a store, in my shoes, which just keeps making it bleed.”

“Oh dear, that sounds like quite a situation. Isn’t Anathema staying in the same hotel again?”

They slapped their forehead. “Yes of course, gosh, why didn’t I think of that. Can I call you back?”

“Yes, of course! I’ll be here when you’re ready.” 

They hung up and called Anathema, who not only completely understood their predicament, she did, in fact, have plasters. They answered her knocking at their door, relieved. 

She smirked as it opened, holding up a little travel first aid kit. “You should get you one of these.”

“Yes, yes. All hail the mighty seasoned traveler. I’m lucky to be near you and mooch off your wisdom, oh grand international designer.”

“I know you’re grateful, and I appreciate the sarcasm, but in all honesty it’s been nice to have a traveling companion. It’s hard to work a long day and then eat dinner alone. I'm just happy to help.”

“It has been, and I appreciate it,” they begrudgingly admitted. Anathema had been with them through all three Fashion Weeks so far, and would be until they flew off to the Caribbean for a photoshoot next week. She’d helped them navigate the crowded streets of New York, eaten cold pizza together in the subway. They’d had silent grumpy coffee in the mornings and tired dinners out in the evenings. She’d been a constant companion, which had vastly helped stave off the loneliness they felt without Aziraphale. “And thank you. For everything.”

She smiled, swishing her long, heavy skirts from side to side in happiness. “You’re welcome. Do you want me to just leave this with you?” She passed over the kit. 

“Yes, please. I was in the middle of a call with Aziraphale, and I’ll need new plasters tomorrow. I’ll buy you another then.”

“Oh, boyfriend time! I’ll get out of your hair. Have fun with your lover boy!” she gently teased as she let herself out.

“Same to you. Newt’s a lucky man!” they called as she pulled the door closed behind her, cutting off her answering chuckle. 

They heaved a deep sigh and bandaged up their ankle before calling Aziraphale back. 

He answered with an “All better dear?” 

“Yes, thank you. Anathema to the rescue, again.”

“It’s nice that you two are off, bonding. You need more friends.”

“I suppose. Bit weird, making nice with my boss, but she's a lot easier to get along with than I thought she'd be.”

They caught each other up on the deeds of the day. Aziraphale had gone and seen Brian’s half finished dining room table, which his carpentry firm was helping him do as a side project. He’d reassured them that it wouldn’t be a wobbly ugly starter project and Crowley had agreed to it being moved into their new home when it was finished. Aziraphale gushed over it, full of praises, and sent them a link to the chairs he wanted to buy to go with it. Crowley liked them, dark, modern and wooden, and Aziraphale assured them they were comfortable to sit in, so they agreed on ordering ten of them. Buggering hell, their life has gone from just one room to needing ten chairs in their dining room. The movers had come and gone and all Crowley’s things were in their new home, where Aziraphale was living, making it lovely for their return. Crowley talked about their catwalk that day, two with small designers they’d never heard of before. One was frilly, loved trim that moved, and the other had a mix of urban and military aesthetics, buttoned up and stiff. 

They laid in bed, tired and ready to sleep but unwilling to hang up, and they listened to the silence of Aziraphale doing the same, but far away. They’d thought about all those things Aziraphale had said about love before they'd left, about what it was supposed to be, and they thought he was probably right. They’d been listening to Queen songs in their hotel room and had come to the conclusion that although ‘I want to break free’ suited their familial feelings, it didn’t suit theirs about Aziraphale, but ‘I was born to love you’ did. Queen couldn’t be wrong, so there must be more to love than what they had thought of it. They’d told him so while they were in America. But it still felt ominous, when he used that word, so they’d agreed to use synonyms. And right now, being on the phone with the man they probably deeply loved, even though they had nothing to say to one another, simply to feel nearer, they were overpowered by that feeling. 

So they said, “I adore you.” 

“I adore you too,” he replied, touched. “I miss you.” 

“Yeah,” they said, their voice hitching. “Me too.”

“Did you know that tomorrow is the one year anniversary of the day we met?”

“No. How did you remember that?”

“Well it was a rather momentous day for me, you see. Job change and all that. Putting in my notice at the museum.”

“Ah. Right. Sorry. Should I have done something?”

“No, no. It’s nothing you need worry about. It’s been a busy year.”

“That it has. Momentous year!” 

“Quite. And you’ve already scheduled such a lovely reuniting date. The Ritz! I’m going to be spoiled enough by that. Plenty of celebration already planned.”

They grinned. “You’re looking forward to it!”

“I am! Quite a lot, to be honest. I’ve peeked at their menu and, oh, Crowley, it all sounds so good. How am I going to choose?”

They laughed, breathy and soft. That was just like him. “I’m sure you can order their tasting menu.”

“That’s just it Crowley, I don’t think they have one. They have something called an ‘epicurean menu’ instead" 

“Well then get that. That’s you. An epicurean.”

“I don’t know about all that. I’m not a moral relativist.”

“Bit too in love with God, still?”

“I believe in a higher power, yes, and apart from that, I believe that there are rights and wrongs and those exist apart from whatever pleasures we derive from existence.”

“Well I don’t believe in one. I’m just out here, wanting you to experience multiple pleasures that I get to watch. Hopefully be the source.”

“Cheek.”

“ ‘S true thought.”

“Well you certainly have been the source before, and I’m fairly certain that you will again, upon your return.”

"I’m feeling positively propositioned,” they teased. Their phone buzzed, a bedtime alarm, and they sighed. 

“Alright angel, I’ve got to be up early. Time for bed.”

“Of course, of course. Don’t want to cut into your beauty sleep. Even though you’re always beautiful.”

“Exactly. I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, dearest. You are a bright spot in my life and I feel lucky to have you.” 

“Me too, angel. Goodnight.” 

* * *

They woke clutching Aziraphale's tartan handkerchief in their fist, but they didn't have time to iron it before they had to be out the door. In their haste they still had it in hand when they left to meet Anathema in the lobby to share a cab to the event. They only noticed when they were in the car and Anathema asked, "What's that?"

"Oh, nothing," they said, hurriedly folding it into a small flat square and tucking it into their bra, where it couldn't get lost even with the flurry of clothes changes they had to do. 

"Mmhmm," she said evenly. "Clearly nothing at all. Because I am always so careful and reverent when handling nothing. That I keep right over my heart."

Crowley gently touched it through their shirt. They had tucked it in the left cup, hadn't they? 

"Just a coincidence." 

"Alright." She relented, clearly unconvinced but willing to drop it.

"... It's Aziraphale's." 

"Like… his token that he left with you? Like a knight and you're his damsel! That’s so cute!"

"No, don't get all excited, 's nothing like that. It's Aziraphale's tartan, as in his family colors. He wants to make me something bespoke with it, since I'm kinda in the family now, but I haven't decided what. And we just moved in together you know? So I'd rather get him something for the house, but I have no idea how to go about that either. It's been on my mind lately." 

"You just need a custom fabric design then. That's not so hard, we do that all the time." 

Crowley blinked and turned in their seat to face her straight on. "You do! I didn't even think of that but of course you do. You have custom designed fabrics showing up every couple months." 

"Yup." Anathema nodded and grinned. "Alexis handles that but I'm sure she'd be able to help us get some when we get back. She’s the manufacturing and fabric guru, you know. We’ll talk to her and she’ll know just what you need and how to get it."

“That would be so helpful! I’m buying him an armchair for him to read in and thought the best I might manage is a throw pillow or something.”

Anathema laughed. “We could get the whole chair in it if you’d like. I know an upholsterer, too.”

“Oh, wow. He’d  _ love  _ that, a wood and tartan armchair. Thank you, Anathema, truly.”

Her eyes sparkled. “You haven’t even heard my devious plan yet.”

They tilted their head, listening. “I haven’t?”

She grinned. “Well, he wanted something for you, right? Something bespoke?” They nodded. “How about I make you a nice garment where his tartan will be over your heart all the time, since that’s where you’re keeping. A lovely set of underthings. I bet he’d go feral when he sees that.”

“He would. He absolutely would,” they said. But more so Crowley found themselves salivating over the idea of walking around, marked as Aziraphale’s. Having their most intimate places being held as they went about their day, only the two of them aware that it was there or what it meant was so intensely appealing, it made their face hot just thinking about it. They wanted to be claimed by him, to claim him, to be a family together. 

“Wonderful! I’ll sketch up a design in my free time, and source fabrics for both when we get back. We can probably have them both finished in a month or less.”

“That’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

“I know,” she said primly. The car stopped, having reached the event, and they both got out and hurried to their tent. Today was the K.U.D. show, and they had both a couture and then ready-to-wear runways to prepare for. It was a madhouse, as usual. It didn’t help that most, but not all of the staff spoke English, and most of the models spoke Italian, so it was a hodgepodge of languages and barked, single word commands. Nevertheless both shows went on without a major hitch, with Crowley walking last, joining Anathema as she came out for her applause and walking hand-in-hand off stage. 

As everything was being broken down and they were changing back into their clothes someone walked up behind them and said, “Look at what we found flapping about.”

They turned, having only pulled their shirt on and there was Lucky. He looked put together, as always. His long blonde hair was half up, a few choice wisps left in his face. He had on black leather pants and gold studded designer shoes that matched his suit jacket, also black with gold metallic details, and his massive camera hung from one shoulder.

“Lucky! I wasn’t expecting you. I’m in the middle of getting changed.”

“I see that. Don’t let me interrupt you,” he said, watching them. They turned back to their things, pulling their pants on in a hurry. 

“What can I do for you?”

“Oh, my little birdie, I saw you were here and hoped you might grace me with your presence. You’re finished with Fashion Week, yes?”

They hopped up and down, trying to put their shoes on. “Well, Milan Fashion Week at least.”

“Yes, Paris is next. But that won’t be for a week. That surely leaves you time for dinner this evening.”

“Well yes, of course I’m going to eat dinner.” They tucked their phone in their pocket. They couldn’t text Aziraphale with Lucky standing right there. Last was their jacket. It was March but the weather was still cool, even in Italy. That was everything, so they turned to face Lucky, who was frowning at them. 

“No, darling. Come eat dinner with me. Let’s catch up, maybe show you some of my newer work. I would very much like to spend time with you. You’ve neglected me.”

“Oh, well, that’s…” Maybe Lucky wanted to make up, maybe he wasn’t angry anymore that they’d chosen Dior over him. It would be a great opportunity if he still wanted to work together.

“Lovely, just lovely. Would you like to eat out anywhere in particular? Or I can get room service if you’d like to come with me back to my hotel. I keep all my work there, only today’s is on the camera. I’m sure you’re hungry, you always are after a long day. I’m sure the kitchens would make you an excellent kebab and chips.”

“Oh, that’s my favorite.”

“I know,” he said, holding his arm out for them. 

Suddenly, Anathema burst in, grabbing a box hidden in the racks of clothing. 

“Crowley! Oh thank the stars. I need your help, some idiot child spilled some kind of red drink all over a rack. We have to hand rinse it right now and get it to a dry cleaner before it stains. Can you believe it?” She jerked her head in the direction she came. “Well? Come on!”

They turned to Lucky, who looked royally pissed. “I’m so sorry, I’ve got to help. Rain check?”

He smiled, “Fine, fine. I’ll come find you.” he turned and said under his breath, just barely loud enough that they caught it, “I always do.”

* * *

The clothes were a mess. Just a huge mess. Sorting them out took hours, since Anathema wouldn’t leave them with a cleaner unsupervised. They waited at the front with her, playing on their phone and texting with Aziraphale late into the night. At some point they swore they saw Lucky outside looking in, but when they turned to get a better look no one was there. They ended up just skipping dinner, too busy repacking and getting K.U.D.’s clothes repacked for their flight out the next day. It was well after midnight when they made it back to their hotel room, ready to collapse into bed, but there was an envelope slipped under the door. 

They picked it up, bleary but curious. The envelope was blank, but inside was a card.

> See you in Paris
> 
> -Lucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got to use a supercomma in this chapter! My favorite punctuation. And in a sex scene no less! Exciting times.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all my readers! 💜 I hope you enjoy it! 💜
> 
> I shall update when I can, which should be every weekend, but WHO KNOWS really? Certainly not me, at this point. What is time, even?
> 
> Copyediting/SPAG comments welcome. Kudos and comments fuel me, like us all.


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